


To reveal my heart in ink

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Sex, Angel Sexuality (Good Omens), Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crowley is Patient (Good Omens), Dorks in Love, Emotional Sex, Epistolary, Erotic letters, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Masturbation, Metaphors, Mostly Epistolary, Other, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Sexual Tension, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, Wings, changing genitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Aziraphale misses writing letters and starts a modern-day correspondence with Crowley by mail. Somehow, it's easier to describe their feelings in the written word, and secrets begin to spill a little more quickly than either Aziraphale or Crowley had expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 491
Kudos: 459





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! First of all, I almost forgot to credit under_a_linden_tree and Tarek_giverofcookies for their beta work!
> 
> This is a chapter fic. It's tagged up front for sexual content because I know that will be there in the future, although there isn't any in this chapter. We're getting there! However, I will definitely be updating the tags as more specific things happen within the fic. They won't be anything that wouldn't be covered by the E rating and the existing tags, just a bit more refined.

**A.Z Fell & Co., 31 May 2021. Morning.**

The black quill pen, held still over an old piece of paper, shimmers in the slanting sunlight.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale contemplates the blank page over his spectacles. “Perhaps,” he mutters, glancing at his telephone, “I should just...no. No, I want to write.”

They see each other often now, far more than ever before, but it’s all scattered and unpredictable. Sometimes they’ll see each other on a Monday and a Wednesday, and then not again until Sunday a week and a half later because Crowley’s fallen asleep and Aziraphale’s got engrossed in a tome he hasn’t read for three centuries.

It isn’t that Aziraphale is unable to fill his hours and days, but he takes comfort in predictability, and if there is one thing he wants to be able to count on, it’s knowing exactly when he’s going to see Crowley next. In reality, more than once a week would be even better, but time does fly when one has been around since before Time. Asking for more of Crowley’s personal space, offering more of his own...well. That would be unseemly.

* * *

Monday, 31 May 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I am entirely aware that you will find this letter ridiculous because we have, as you will no doubt remind me, “easier ways to talk.” But easier isn’t superior.

Most people no longer communicate by post. Well, one still receives mail, but not the kind that makes for good company; it’s always government correspondence or advertisements for things I do not wish to buy. And nearly no one does handwriting anymore. Everything is printed from a computer, and while I suppose they can’t be blamed given the volume of mail involved, those printed materials are, I find, rather lacking in character.

I like writing letters, and I miss when it was commonly done at least several times every week. It’s very satisfying, you know, to put a whole message down, to make sure the lettering looks right, to seal it with wax and send it off with the courier.

The purpose for which I’m writing you, aside from the enjoyment of writing a letter, of course, is to ask if you might like to set up a standard day and hour to meet, perhaps for brunch. As it is, the time gets away from me, and while we don’t have to plan every day carefully, it would be a comfort to know I have just one regular outing to look forward to. I was tentatively thinking it would be nice to meet every Sunday, around eleven o’clock.

Let me know if that would be an acceptable plan for you. Do humour me and write back.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

1/6/2021

Aziraphale,

Consider yourself humoured.

Crowley

* * *

Wednesday, 2 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I cannot properly articulate my disappointment. Your response is clearly the opposite of humouring.

Sincerely,

Aziraphale

* * *

4/6/2021

Aziraphale,

You should’ve known I couldn’t resist.

Listen. Or read, actually, since that’s what we’re doing. It wouldn’t kill me to write you a letter now and again, I guess. Just don’t expect it to be high art, for Someone’s sake. I did miss using the wax seal, though, you were right about that. The one I’m using is relatively new - not sure if you ever saw it.

Also, let me get a single word in on the phone. I was trying to tell you Sundays are good for brunch.

Crowley

* * *

Sunday, 6 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I am writing to you on Sunday after brunch, which was a delight, certain contrarian opinions notwithstanding. I am happy to know we’ll be meeting every week. However, now that we’ve been through one meeting, I wonder if you might like to alternate? Brunch, lunch, and dinner, perhaps, on alternating weeks, at different restaurants? You know I love the Ritz, but there are so many stellar establishments.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

P.S. That seal of yours does have appeal indeed. One must admit it is very elegant.

* * *

8/6/2021

Aziraphale,

I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep writing you letters and take you to any restaurant you want if you’ll just call me on Sunday mornings to figure this out instead of trying to establish a pattern we probably won’t always be in the mood to keep, anyway.

Crowley

* * *

Thursday, 10 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I do hope you know I’m not about to let you pay for every outing. I shall be taking you to restaurants every other week. After all, we may have encountered some changes in our situation, but I’m still not about to incur any unpaid debts to a demon.

I will see you on Sunday.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

13/6/2021

Aziraphale,

Fair enough. I’ll let you buy next week. Sushi and sake were good, as always.

I’m not sure what else to write. Haven’t been up to much since a couple hours ago, you know. Lurked a little in some alleyways, did some people-watching from the shadows. Mostly just listened to cranky people on their phones, but I also had to use a miracle in order to slink away from a couple of horny youths.

I realise angels don’t lurk, but if you’re ever doing anything comparable, never do it in a one-way alley. I would have messed with them a bit, but they seemed serious about what they were doing. Didn’t want to see them go at it, didn’t want to interrupt them in the middle of their canoodling. You know how it is. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Don’t get ideas, angel. I was encouraging the sin of lust. Even lied to a cop to get him to stay away.

Crowley

* * *

Tuesday, 15 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

You may not like this very much, but I can’t help observing that it is rather considerate of you to avoid the interruption of these complicated human mating rituals. Now, don’t get offended - it is possible they were exercising poor judgment by doing private things in public, and you made it worse by distracting an officer of the law, so one couldn’t accuse you of being too good by letting them continue! I am merely stating that I personally appreciate your conduct.

As for me, I find those incidents flustering, no matter how many times I’ve run across them since the beginning. I’m certain you remember how things were back then: learning about shame didn’t stop them copulating, but it did mean they got upset and yelled at me on occasions when I stumbled across their activities. And this I did often, because I had assignments and they were quite awful at hiding.

The Almighty had Her reasons for making it all so complicated, I’m sure. Despite myself, I sometimes wish to learn more about the finer details, since these biological functions aren’t ones angels normally experience, even though I know they can be rather vulgar indeed. Truth be told, I was a bit fascinated when they began to discover different ways of identifying themselves and engaging in intimate relations than merely what went on in the Garden. As with everything else they’ve got their hands on throughout history - eating, speaking, sheltering - they turned it into so much more than an act of survival, sometimes even more than an act of momentary pleasure. Perhaps that was the point all along?

Goodness, look at this ramble. It surely demonstrates how I’ve missed writing letters.

I look forward to our next meeting, be it Sunday or beforehand.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, 16 June 2021. Evening.**

They’re showing a new version of _Hamlet_ at the Sondheim (Aziraphale will still think of it as the Queen’s Theatre, but it’s the Sondheim now).

On one hand, it would definitely be fun to see it with Aziraphale, whose opinions about life on Earth range from reasonable to downright insufferable. On the other hand, the spoilers say it isn’t a tragedy. And Aziraphale is protective of his favorite old things. On the other other hand, one of the reviewers swears up and down that this one manages to transform the work without losing its “essence,” as they put it.

Crowley opens his drawer, takes out a paper and pen, and begins his next letter. He chuckles to himself, realising he should start out with a response to all that commentary about human sexuality. “Learn more about the finer details,” indeed… Crowley has some experience with that.

Crowley had started learning about the finer details centuries ago out of mere curiosity, and now, he regularly takes idle pleasure in the act of slipping his hand between his legs and working himself up to orgasm using whatever configuration he’s in the mood for. Although humans generally seem to prefer the activity done with others, Crowley has no baked-in fascination with making it a paired activity, and he’s emotionally interested in that level of vulnerability with only one other being, who would probably be very scandalised indeed if he knew.

Nothing scandalous about an invite to the theatre, though.

* * *

16/6/2021

Aziraphale,

It’s always something good with you, isn’t it? Can’t fool me. Yeah, I remember what Adam and Eve were like, and what was the same and what’s different now. As to the point of it...suppose your guess is as good as mine. It isn’t that I’m not curious.

I have a suggestion. Think it over and let me know what you’d like to do on Sunday. They’re showing that new production of Hamlet as a matinee, so I thought you might want to see it either before or after we eat. Just a suggestion. For what it’s worth, I’m not sure it’s up your alley, exactly, but it could be fun to see what they’ve done to old Will’s work this time.

Crowley

* * *

**The Sondheim Theatre, London, 20 June 2021. Afternoon.**

It isn’t a date. They are not humans. They don’t go on dates.

This might, however, be how it feels to be a human on a date.

For the most part, the performance has Aziraphale enraptured. The cast is so phenomenal, and for all that modernization might be ruining the aesthetic, they’ve more than made up for it in concept.

But at the key plot points where the biggest changes have been made, Crowley keeps glancing at Aziraphale. He always glances away when Aziraphale makes eye contact. The idea that Crowley must be concerned about whether he’ll enjoy the play is...well, he doesn’t want to think it too soon, but it seems unmistakable. Crowley isn’t smirking like he does when he’s pulling one of his many pranks, either. He simply glances and watches, as though it were he who was being judged rather than the players.

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s warmth to his left, as always. He wonders, not for the first time, what he would do if he were embraced. Would he want to be held, or touched anywhere at all? Under his clothes, even? It’s not-- it’s not an inherently sexual drive. Not that such a thing would be unappealing, with Crowley. Not that Aziraphale hasn’t experimented a bit himself. This, though, is about wanting to be close, here in their Earthly forms, whether chaste or not.

Aziraphale, awash in the thrill of a good story and the comfort of company who truly wants to be with him, finds himself nearly overflowing with the desire to reach out. He could lean on the same armrest Crowley does, could let their arms press together. At worst, Crowley would probably hardly notice, right? He’d just lean away and it might be a little disappointing.

And yet...if he’s wrong, he could ruin a lovely outing. Better not to make a disturbance. Not even the tiny rub of fabric against fabric.

* * *

Monday, 21 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Yesterday’s showing of _Hamlet_ was splendid. Your instinct was right in many ways; it was very modernised, and at first, I was concerned that it might be a bad experience. The realisation that the ending would be drastically altered was especially worrisome.

But when I discovered they had managed to transform it with respect for the original intact, I must confess I nearly wept for joy. I rather missed _I am more an antique Roman than a Dane_ , and wish they had found some way to fit it in with the new telling, but the clever transformation of _Good night, sweet prince_ made up for it. They changed so much about it, and yet, the more I think about it, the more I can see the soul of Will’s original work in there, rising transformed like a phoenix from the ashes. Oh, such a trite choice of words, but the sentiment is true.

I know I’m repeating myself, but I can’t help it; the discussion is too enjoyable. I cannot be certain what Will’s opinion of it all would have been. One wonders whether he would have allowed Hamlet to change his mind. Anyway, sometimes it seems to me as if humanity has become kinder over the centuries, and although I do get frustrated with their penchant for changing things all the time, in cases like this, perhaps it is a reflection of something I can approve...

I cannot emphasise enough how much better the night was for being spent at your side. While we sat there, I remembered Hamlet’s fame being your favor in the first place. In a very real way, you gave me much more than a theatre ticket yesterday. The humans deserve the credit for all their work, but without your influence, that performance may never have happened. Ophelia might never have got her hopeful ending. Horatio might still be trudging onward without Hamlet. The whole original script might be illegible by now, under four centuries of dust and mildew.

You’ve made me very sentimental. I find myself rather bashful to tell you in such plain terms, but perhaps you should know.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, 22 June 2021. Morning.**

Crowley, perched on his throne, turns the letter over in his hands again. He smells it; it carries the scent of the bookshop, which is probably not as pleasant to Aziraphale’s customers as to Crowley.

He removes his sunglasses. It would have been time to go out, but now he has some meditating to do, because Aziraphale has just put a lot of mushy feelings, the sappiest ones he’s ever directly admitted to having, into writing, on paper, where they can be reviewed over and over, and sent them right to Crowley, the object of those feelings.

When they meet up in person, Aziraphale does not tend to bring up the contents of their letters very much. He’ll make indirect references, as by doing the things Crowley asks for - calling instead of writing, for example, or saying “I would be interested in seeing that new Hamlet, if you would still like.” But, for example, the entire weird sexual story about the people in the alleyway from a week or so ago hasn’t come up despite their spending many hours together since then. Aziraphale hasn’t used it as an excuse to accuse Crowley of being a secret bleeding heart or anything like that. He also hasn’t brought up the topic of letters at all since he first got irritated on the phone when Crowley tried to call instead of writing back.

Crowley reads and rereads. It’s not exactly a love confession; it reads very fondly, yes, and it is as direct as the angel has ever been, but it could just be a passing positive emotion, fueled by the high of a good show.

Crowley sets to work responding. The longer he delays, the longer Aziraphale has to wait and the more nerve Crowley loses. As slow as writing is compared to speaking on the phone, it is somehow a little easier to be honest when he puts the pen to the paper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale copes with the reality that he just sent Crowley an emotionally revealing letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to under_a_linden_tree and Tarek_giverofcookies for betaing, and also for KittieHill for being a new beta and Britpicker! I rearranged the ways the dates were formatted, too.
> 
> This chapter is a bit short. I'm hoping to have another chapter up sooner next time, like maybe halfway through the week instead of on the weekend, but we'll have to see. Thank you so much to everyone who's commented so far.

Tuesday, 22 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I keep reconsidering the letter I sent you yesterday and wondering if perhaps it came across a bit too strongly. I’m sure you know that you don’t have to pay it any heed. It is, I must say, rather easy to get carried away in writing.

Of unrelated note, I think I will go ahead and do an extensive inventory again this week. There has been an uptick in customers of late for reasons I haven’t yet understood. More updates later.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

22/6/2021

Aziraphale,

Aha. I knew you’d be at least a little interested. Didn’t dare hope for such _unbridled_ enthusiasm, angel, but if it tickles your fancy that much...

As fun as it was to watch the original play succeed in the 17th century, seeing the outcome of yesterday was better. It’s their work. Can’t take credit forever just for giving them a nudge in the beginning, can I?

We could do that more often, if you wanted. Go out to plays and concerts and random performances and even movies, I mean, if we find ones you can tolerate. We don’t need to use them for excuses anymore, we don’t have to tie them to assignments. We could go for more than just a meal every week. We could go out as often as we want. I mean, I suspect every day would be too hectic for you, but the point is, all that stuff we like to do can just be a good time now. We can even take turns treating.

Anyway, it was a good night for me, too. Probably wouldn’t have gone at all if it was just me alone.

Crowley

* * *

Thursday, 24 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

It would appear our letters crossed in the mail. Oh, dear. I wasn’t taking back what I said before, you understand - only attempting to temper it a little.

I would like to have these outings even more often. However, there is a concept I have trouble articulating, which has kept me from asking. It is not for lack of temptation. Let’s consider it and see what events come to London next, shall we?

Given that I will be doing inventory, I will be a little busy this week, but you are always welcome to drop by for a quick sip. In fact, if you’re in the mood, please do. And, of course, I am certainly looking forward to Sunday.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

25/6/2021

Alright, Angel,

It was a bit gooey and sentimental, but I didn’t mind your letter about the play. There’s nothing wrong with an angel being a sap, I don’t think. No temperance required. See? Perfectly demonic stuff, right there, encouraging total intemperance. It’s like gluttony, but for feelings. Meanwhile, you’re an angel, so it’s perfectly alright for you. Cancels out. It’s a win-win.

I mean, strictly speaking, I’m not invested in playing by the rules anymore anyway, but old habits die hard, sometimes it’s easier to keep them up. Point is, you don’t have to be all awkward and self conscious about your soppy Hamlet letter.

I’m sure I can plan on darkening your doorstep sometime soon, in addition to seeing you on Sunday. Looking forward.

Crowley

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co. Sunday, 27 June 2021. Late Night.**

For all his apparent delight at Crowley’s pseudo-surprise visit last night and planned visit today, Aziraphale has not acknowledged the letters. It is, of course, possible that the one from Friday hadn’t arrived the next morning. It puts Crowley on edge. Will it arrive tomorrow? Will Aziraphale still want him to stop by more often, or will he feel smothered? Was that a this-week-only invite?

As it is, they’re lazing about the bookshop, talking about famous humans ( _Tolkien at the moment_ ). It’s a lovely, laid-back evening. They’ve got beverages, but they’re not getting completely sozzled because, as far as they know, there’s no Armageddon immediately bearing down on them.

Crowley listens, lets Aziraphale reminisce. After all, earlier that evening, Crowley had been alternately gushing and whinging about the Beatles for an hour straight, and Aziraphale had made a valiant attempt at remembering their names ( _“‘Ringo,’ oh, yes, that name is...hard to forget”_ ).

Although they can generally sense each other’s auras when they’re nearby, it would be more enjoyable to sit right next to Aziraphale, lean on him, feel his celestial heat come through his corporation here, on the physical plane. The truth is, there’s something vulnerable in Crowley, like a scared little python, coiled into a ball, refusing to bite and refusing to relax.

Aziraphale lectures him vaguely about one thing or another that humans do, or giggles until he’s red in the face, and Crowley resists the magnetic pull. He could bask in that radiance. He could uncoil his heart and open up.

That, however, seems the very definition of “going too fast,” even if he assumes Aziraphale is interested in that sort of activity at all. If such a thing happens between them, either they’re going to have to talk it out first, or Aziraphale will have to make the first move. It’s no sure thing, either, how exactly it would play out if they got used to, um, cuddling, or whatever it should be called. Crowley would merge with Aziraphale if he could; he’d touch the angel all over, just for the sake of knowing, just for another fun thing to do together.

That pent-up longing for closeness, any kind of closeness, can be shoved into the physical world, into his corporation. And it can be...worked off. Well, it doesn’t ever really leave, but it’s a temporary pressure-release valve, anyway. Makes him feel like he’s doing something about it.

Maybe Aziraphale does the same.

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes and drinks in the warmth of them for a heady beat before standing and cracking his spine.

“Time to go, I think, angel,” he says. “After dinner is a good time for a nap.”

“Oh? Oh, all right,” Aziraphale says. He, too, stands, heading for the door. “Not, ah, too long, I hope? You slothful snake,” he adds, obviously looking for something to poke at Crowley for.

“Mmm, maybe a month, maybe two,” Crowley grins devilishly as he follows.

Aziraphale turns to pout at him, hand still on the doorknob.

“Nah, come on, did you think I was serious?”

“Well, how should I know? You’ve slept for much longer before.” Aziraphale finally opens the door, but doesn’t move out of the way.

“Don’t worry. I’m just gonna do the human thing.” Crowley does not attempt to shuffle past Aziraphale, and instead stays where he is, acutely uncertain what to do with his hands. He jams them in his pockets. “Eight hours. I’ll be out there planting weeds and stopping traffic tomorrow.”

Finally, Aziraphale glances away and smiles sweetly, as if Crowley has said a password he wasn’t supposed to guess, and steps aside. As Crowley comes to his senses, making his way through the door, he hears a soft “Mind how you go, then, dear.”

* * *

Monday, 28 June 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I have a small confession to make about last night. It may not be the most absurd thing I have ever put into words, but it is still notably strange.

When we got a glass or two in - not that much, all things considered - I had an urge to, if I’m being honest, reach out and touch you. Naturally this wasn’t possible with you on the other side of the room, but the drink might have had me feeling more tactile than usual. In some way, I rather wanted to put my hand on your shoulder and simply leave it there for a while, or perhaps even sit with my arm around you.

I even found myself admiring your appearance - it was the way the light made your hair such a deep red, and the way the light and shadows played on your face. Like art.

You’ve never commented to me how you feel about physical touch. Angels don’t do much of it, but on the occasion that I’ve experienced it here on Earth, it’s been pleasant. Heaven has been somewhat discouraging of it, and I hesitate to indulge too often. Unlike other Earthly enjoyments - eating, drinking, entertainment - physical touch has not come up enough to get used to, and I find it too intimate to engage with on a casual basis.

Anyway, I am curious to hear your thoughts on the subject.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

29/6/2021

Aziraphale,

Haven’t had much opportunity for touching to be a good thing, if I’m being honest. Hell doesn’t so much “touch” as “strike,” and I haven’t become that closely involved with humans. It would be sort of depressing as a demon, although I can’t imagine it would be much less depressing for you.

If you want to try it, though, you can ask. It’s perfectly fine. You’ve got that couch for two, even. Seems a shame to let it go to waste, no? You can sit there with your arm around me while I drink just as much as I always do, it’s no big deal. Let me know.

Crowley

P.S. Trust me, that letter was not even close to being the most absurd thing you’ve ever said, so don’t you fret.

* * *

Thursday, 1 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Writing these things to you is, I believe, therapeutic. And yet, my letters have outrun my ability to act.

Although my desires are there, I believe this is a case of “old habits dying hard,” as you put it. I have to admit to feeling some sense of paralysis when I think about touching you in an amicable manner. Heaven has always frowned upon the notion with such utter disdain; how can I merely cast that off? How can I throw away a fear that’s lasted for six thousand years? I have also been consumed with worry that you will not enjoy the sensation - but it would be a lie to claim that is my only anxiety. It is only the beginning of my anxiety.

At the same time, I cannot quite dismiss the notion that we could, perhaps, eventually, reach that point in person, if we can only discuss it, slowly and quietly, for some time, in writing.

It seems silly, I realise. There isn’t anything much more intimate than what we’ve already done. And yet, touching you now seems...quite different indeed. I can’t manage it yet.

Looking forward, as ever, to Sunday.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

* * *

2/7/2021

Aziraphale,

Look, I might be existentially obligated to complain, but I just don’t feel like it.

Write about whatever you want. Anything. Point blank period. I can’t promise I’ll have anything interesting to add, but the absolute worst I can do is, what, have a chuckle about it? Argue with you? I know you can deal with that because you’ve seen me do it before. I’m not going to be nasty and give you the silent treatment. Or the no-mail treatment, I guess. Write what you’d like, and I won’t speak a word of it in person, unless you ask me to.

Here, I’ll even start with a little something of my own: your little confession about the other night? You weren’t the only one. And you aren’t the only one who’s still worried.

Crowley

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co., 3 July 2021. Late Morning.**

Bright sun illuminates a few dust motes floating around in front of the grandfather clock.

Typically, the post arrives between 9 and 11 o’clock in the morning. If Aziraphale reads it right away, he has a couple of hours to compose a response and get it to a postbox in time for next-day delivery to Mayfair. When he’d proposed this idea to Crowley, he truly had not been expecting to do this much dashing back and forth - the whole thing was supposed to be a relaxed affair.

And yet, Crowley immediately set to pressing his buttons, and he’s caught himself making all these little miniature confessions, ones that don’t entirely reveal the depth of his feeling but expose vulnerabilities nonetheless. Anyway, now he’s constantly peeking out the windows in anticipation of the mail.

It’s late today. 11:30. Possibly, Crowley has got tired of his nonsense and, as a result, no mail will be coming at all. Or perhaps he doesn’t know how to respond to Aziraphale’s odd, humanlike confession. Or perhaps his letter has been lost and he’ll simply never know Crowley’s response.

( _Ask him outright? In person? Goodness, no._ )

And then it arrives, the mail slot clunking metallically as the letter drops through, the only arrival for today. In a flurry, he’s picked it up. Aziraphale stands next to the table where the torn envelope lies, reading the letter over and over again.

“Oh, Crowley.” With a deep breath, he holds the page to his heart and smiles. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to revise this chapter. When I first posted it, one of Aziraphale’s letters mentioned the body swap. I realised that for safety’s sake, they would probably never put such sensitive information in writing, so I purposefully made the letter more vague.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets bolder in writing, and Crowley is a little bit overwhelmed by the result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to under_a_linden_tree, Tarek_giverofcookies, and KittieHill for betaing! Getting into the explicit NSFW in this chapter, just a warning! Adding a couple new tags about it, too.

Sunday, 4 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Please spare a little patience as I attempt to articulate this letter in a way that will satisfy me without upsetting your demonic sensibilities. Perhaps you will put up with just a few of my compliments.

It certainly means a great deal that you would be willing to keep writing no matter how strange my words may become, no matter how much difficulty I may have with putting my voice behind them in person. Being so bold does lend a comforting certainty to communication, I suppose. I have kept many journals in the past, but writing to myself or recording for the possibility of a future audit is simply not the same as trying to convey information to you...especially when that information is more sentiment than anything else. I find it necessary to be clearer and more deliberate with you than with myself, and in doing so, I am mobilised to face the truth. The unfortunate fact is that looking too closely at my own psyche has been a disturbing proposition for millennia, and for you to entertain this delightful, slow conversation via post has helped me do some introspection for which I hadn’t realised I was aching.

That’s enough about me for one letter, however. What about you? Do you truly take no joy from writing? I seem to recall that you corresponded as much as anyone else when this was the primary mode of communication.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale

6/7/2021

Aziraphale,

You don’t have to fall all over yourself thanking me. In case you couldn’t already tell, I kind of like getting letters from you, even when you write like you’re applying for a job at a law firm.

About writing: well, language in general was never my thing like it was yours. But I used to be better at it. Remember? Pulled it together enough to tempt Shakespeare into plagiarising me, even. You have to admit, some of my material was good. Maybe I’m just out of practise, or maybe it’s from a few centuries of sending very specific types of memos back to Head Office. See, I had a really good idea that I sort of adopted from the humans, which was to write all of my reports like I was advertising a product or bragging about my qualifications in a cover letter. It worked like a charm, but when you only write in one tone, I guess you start to lose your ear for the others.

Also, “demonic sensibilities?” Well, if you’re looking for things to compliment, angel, I’m not above a bit of vanity...

Crowley

Thursday, 8 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

You would ask me to indulge your vanity? I happen to have the very idea for that.

You see, I went for a walk this morning and found myself in the National Gallery. I visit there quite often, but rarely in this kind of mood. As it was, I couldn’t help observing, in much of the artwork, certain things about the colours, lighting, and shadows. 

They reminded me of you. I want to expound upon my claim that you are like artwork. In those paintings, I saw so much to tell you about.

Do you know that when I first met you, six thousand years ago, I hardly spared a thought for your eyes? Perhaps it sounds horrible, but it’s true. I noticed them, and thought to myself, “Ah, snake eyes. That makes sense,” and did not think about it again until much later. Now, this morning, I saw Vincent van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” in person. In them, Crowley, were your eyes - all those shades of vibrant, natural yellow, a hint of melancholy leaning into a tinge of hope. Of all things, Van Gogh wrote that the paintings were supposed to communicate gratitude, and there was someone for whom I was very grateful indeed as I stood and thought in front of those painted flowers. And sweet though he was, it wasn’t Vincent.

In the contrasting hues of Leonardo da Vinci’s work, I could see the carved shape of your face, the sharp relief of your nose, the shadows and light playing on your cheekbones. The rich, warm tones of Michelangelo’s brush spoke to me of nothing so much as your hair. The truth of the matter is I have always thought you were beautiful in one way or another, even when I could not articulate it; it seems humanity, throughout the centuries, has done it for me, and I only need report to you what I find.

There is more. Canaletto’s _A Regatta on the Grand Canal_ and my memories of running across you on so many days just like that one, in Venice and elsewhere. A diptych I’ve seen you laugh at before because you do love absurdity and one does have to admit, the expressions on the figures’ faces can be so very absurd. The tension in Vermeer’s work - that questioning look you use when you want me to explain the ineffable and already know I won’t be able.

In short, very nearly all of it is reminiscent of you, or my time with you.

Even the way I’m not supposed to be touching the art has a familiarity about it. It’s something that was created to be admired by all and touched by very, very few, of whom I am not one.

For many, many reasons, it makes little sense to harbor such fears. But that is what I am contending with.

Yours, so very truly,

Aziraphale

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Sunday, 11 July 2021. Early morning.**

“‘Morning.”

“Good morning, Crowley. It’s me.”

“Yes, I know. ‘Morning, angel.”

“I was, ah, wondering. Would you like to do something today?”

“Of course. What would you say to Clos Maggiore?”

“That is...I’ve heard of it. The name’s familiar. Don’t think I’ve ever been.”

“We could try an old favorite, if you’d rather not take a chance on a new place. Thought it might be interesting to try somewhere we haven’t been yet.”

“Well, why not? They’ve got wine?”

“Oceans of the stuff. Supposed to have great ambiance, too. It’s not the Ritz, but…”

“That might be all right. What do you mean, ‘ambiance?’ I do hope it’s not like that lavatory-themed--”

“No, no, this is nothing like that. There’s flowers. Supposed to be classy, not weird.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful.”

“Great. What about if I pick you up at five?”

“I’ll be waiting. Shall we go for a walk after?”

“Don’t see why not.”

11/7/2021

Angel,

I really don’t know what to say.

I’ve received a fair number of compliments, some pretty intense, but...never any like that letter.

I noticed you staring at me tonight. Looking for a reaction, maybe? You’re not very good at hiding it. Demons really aren’t made for hearing words so dramatically lovely - not at all, and definitely never about ourselves. I wasn’t actually expecting you to follow through, you know, I thought you would lecture me on the problems with vanity and I’d just remind you I’m a demon and we’d both agree it was alright, then.

It’s not that I’m not glad you took it so literally. I am. It’s just a bit to get used to. Didn’t think I should say anything in person, but I hope you could tell I was pleased.

It’s all very good, and I like it a lot. I like art a lot. I told you about all the time I spent hanging out with da Vinci, right? So yeah, being compared to his work is great. All the others, too. Again, running low on words, here. Thank you is what I’m looking to say, I think.

The only thing is, I wouldn’t want to let all the museum security in the world decide whether I was allowed to be touched, fingerprinted, scratched, or stolen entirely if I wanted to be. Maybe getting a little deep into the metaphor, but the point is, it seems lonely, being art. I’m glad I’m not really.

But you know I can’t let good things go without an argument of some sort. In the end, I was so chuffed at the whole thing that I had to go have a lie-down when I first got it. This response still isn’t as coherent as I’d hoped it would be.

See you soon, then.

Crowley

Monday, 12 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Goodness. I suppose I hadn’t thought the metaphor through all the way. 

How poignant that you should bring up loneliness. I have been contemplating how very alone I would be if you hadn’t come along. No one else knows me as you do. No one cares so much, nor is supposed to. It took a rebel to do all that, and I’m still not quite used to it.

The point I was hoping to make is that you are adored, Crowley. Not like an ornament, although I still think the art comparison is partly accurate for the beauty and history involved. But no, you’re adored for the brilliant sort of being you are, and for many things that are impossible to describe: the whole of the time we’ve spent together.

I adore you. You know that, and perhaps it would make you uncomfortable to hear it stated out loud, but you ought at least to see it in writing.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

P.S. I noticed. In your face, in the way you held yourself, and in the way you held the door, it showed. Thank you.

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, Wednesday, 14 July 2021. Early afternoon.**

The Mayfair flat, grey and dark as any self-respecting lair is supposed to be, is silent. A pair of sunglasses lies cast aside on the marble desktop next to an open envelope.

This letter. This one is different. It smells like a very specific cologne. Crowley, draped over his throne, gapes at the letter, frowning almost - but not quite - in disbelief. Then he closes his eyes, tips his head back, and takes a deep breath of it.

Aziraphale scented this letter with his cologne.

It’s been a while since humans did this on a regular basis, but it’s often a courtship thing. He’d written and fragranced it like a Victorian maiden, and if that isn’t just the most insufferably attractive thing—

On one hand, holding each other properly is still obviously too much. Crowley can’t just—just _bolt_ out of the apartment and floor it to the bookshop. On the other, perhaps Aziraphale is taking a step toward sharing the pleasure of touch. When Aziraphale admits to himself that he wants something, it usually isn’t too long before he’ll accept it from Crowley, who is good at making offers that frighten even himself a little.

( _Well, alright, sometimes it takes a few centuries. But in the grand scheme of things, it usually isn’t too long._ )

Crowley lifts his head again and glances dizzily around the room, from the entrance to his plants’ room to the eagle lectern. He might just vibrate out of this dimension with the thrill swelling in his chest from that one letter and its fragrance, _I adore you_ , the thoughts it puts in his head of being close enough to smell it on Aziraphale, to hold him and be held in return, of getting to touch Aziraphale and do intimate things, vulnerable things, things that would once have been far too dangerous...

“Nnngh, _fuck’s sake_ , angel,” he groans out loud at the letter. Crowley’s desire for yet-unexplored intimacy is dry tinder, Aziraphale’s secretive courtship ritual a burning ember; where is the resulting blaze supposed to go?

...Alright. There is _one_ thing he could do with it for now.

As far as Crowley is concerned, orgasms are pretty good, albeit temporary, tension relief. He would like to experience them with Aziraphale, in the way that many beings capable of affection like to share good things with their favourite people, and it isn’t as if this would be the first time he imagined it. A quick miracle has his trousers loose enough that he can comfortably open his zipper. There’s something ceremonial about doing it this way, rather than merely dismissing them into the ether until he needs them again.

Crowley bites his lip as he teases himself, running the thumb of one hand in a circle around his swelling head, holding the fragrant letter to his chest.

If Aziraphale were here, and if it’s what he desired, he could easily be the one getting pleasured right now, an angel enchanted and gratified by the Earthly joy a demon could visit upon his corporation. He’d probably be vocal about it. When Crowley kissed Aziraphale, slipped a gentle hand between his legs, would he sound like he does when he has dessert or a particularly fine wine? Blissful, satisfied, perpetually amazed by what these bodies can do?

Crowley strokes himself slowly, luxuriating over every inch of his own length, still breathing Aziraphale’s cologne. He thinks of secret knowledge and a bowtie coming undone, of laugh lines and breathy sighs.

The thought of touching his tongue to Aziraphale’s, inhaling the angel’s chosen fragrance along with the scent of his bare skin, listening to him gasp, has Crowley’s hips rising to meet his own hand, already starting to get carried along on waves of desperate arousal. He continues wanking away on his throne, not bothering to keep quiet.

What parts would Aziraphale choose? Crowley would love to figure out how to please anything the angel could possibly conjure up. He’s suddenly reminded, as if by Aziraphale himself, that pleasure is a mutual endeavor, and he would not let Crowley get away without being indulged in kind.

Maybe Aziraphale would like it if they pressed together, kissing, rubbing off on each other. Maybe he’d insist they took turns, _“after you.”_ Or maybe he’d indulge in that oral fixation and taste Crowley, lavish him with kisses and licks, suck him absolutely dry or eat him out like the finest delicacy he’s ever tasted.

It’s to this thought that Crowley reaches the point of no return and comes all over himself, including on the slightly-crinkled letter that still rests under his hand.

Crowley sighs, closing his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths. He lies still for a while, basking in his own afterglow. Then, finally, he stirs again.

“I’ll keep it to myself,” he says out loud, as if the letter could hear him. He miracles the ejaculate away. “Felt good, though.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a move in St. James Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies), and a new helper, [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky), for help with beta work!
> 
> I had to slightly revise one of Aziraphale’s letters in chapter 2. He mentioned the body swap directly, when in reality, I think they’d both avoid putting that information in writing because of how dangerous it would be if one of their Sides ever found out about how they survived their trials. The change is extremely slight so you definitely don’t have to look at it. Just thought it was worth mentioning.
> 
> Please note the added tags for anxiety, which Aziraphale has obviously and Crowley has somewhat more subtly. Thank you all for your support! You help keep me going!

14/7/2021

Angel,

You’re really out to expose me, aren’t you? I suppose there’s nothing objectively wrong with that anymore. If by some improbable chance someone other than you got hold of this letter and managed to read it, they could shove it...someplace I won’t mention for your sake.

Anyway. You’re adored, too. By me. Look, it’s a nerve-wracking thing, putting all this in ink, but I do adore you. It’s nothing you didn’t already know, though I suspect it would make you happy to see the words here on paper. Like being able to see yours and go back to them any time I want.

Keep writing. I’m sure I’ll come up with something readable eventually. I’m working on it. It’ll knock your tartan socks off, put old Will to shame.

Crowley

* * *

Friday, 16 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Don’t go too hard on the man’s legacy! I certainly do look forward to seeing what you’ve got...

But you must let me know if my own letters get to be too much. Especially now, because there’s an idea I wanted to suggest. It’s not an activity I think we should do right away, but I’ve had it on my mind ever since _Hamlet_.

I might, someday, perhaps not too long from now, like to try kissing. If you also wanted, you understand.

I have not always grasped the appeal. Sometimes, seeing people do it and feeling embarrassed for them, I find myself wondering if it would be any fun after all. Then again, it gets quite an enthusiastic endorsement from a good portion of humanity.

What do you think?

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

P.S. Your cologne is wonderful. I’m so glad you decided to include it.

* * *

19/7/2021

Angel,

Glad you like it. Had to return the favour, didn’t I?

And sure, I’d be up for kissing.

We could start out slow. There’s no sense in diving head-first into it like they do in the romance movies, that nonsense is overrated anyway.

Why start with kissing when we could sit together for a while, take our time? Even if kissing isn’t as fun as people make it sound, I’d enjoy just sharing a bit of body heat. I was a snake, after all.

I could hold onto you if you’d be willing to relax and not sit so ramrod-stiff. Or, you know, we could do the other way round, let you hold on to me. Could be at your place on the sofa, under those old blankets you’ve had since the Great War; rumour has it that’s a good way to spend a cold evening.

If you were comfortable, we could begin without swapping spit. Cheek kisses, maybe. And if you liked it, we could decide where to go from there.

Anyway. Something to think about.

Crowley

* * *

Wednesday, 21 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

My initial reaction to the phrase “swapping spit” was one of profound alarm. Really, the vulgarity! Is nothing sacred? Silly question, I suppose. But after careful consideration, I must say I am quite sure I will still want to try kissing.

You deserve to know your lips look exceptionally kissable. Rather soft, and a pink that goes so very dashingly with the rest of your features. I can imagine they must be sweetly warm. I’d like to run my hands through your beautiful hair, too, if you’d let me.

My, is this too explicit to be shared via post? It is fascinating to write, but it does feel suspiciously like I am doing the same improper things the youths do with their cellular telephones. Sextating, is it? That isn’t what that word used to mean.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the rest of your letter, which also sounds immensely enjoyable. You make an awfully compelling argument toward cuddling, for a demon. Someday, then. I will happily add it to our to-do list.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

23/7/2021

Angel,

It’s sexting. Not sextating. Don’t you worry - you’re not anywhere near sexting. You’d have to go a lot further. Although I suppose you already have gone pretty far, for an angel. Anyway, you sitting there at your desk trying to remember the word for “sexting” is the most hilarious image I’ve been treated to in a while.

In all seriousness, I think it’s perfectly alright for you to pen whatever sentiment you want. Even if it’s basically a Victorian-styled sext.

Thinking about stopping over again tomorrow. Not sure if this letter will beat me there.

Crowley

* * *

**St. James Park. Saturday, 24 July 2021. Afternoon.**

The sun is hot, the birds are loud, and summer is at its vibrant height in the park.

They’re arguing about the merits of professional theatre critique, and if he takes Crowley’s hand now, it’s not the same as it was in the past.

In the past, they always had Reasons for it. They were making deals, or swapping corporations for survival’s sake, or they were on the bus to annihilation and nothing felt particularly real anyway so why not reach out for a tiny measure of comfort? If he takes Crowley’s hand now, it’s just for enjoyment, not even the most paltry excuse available to shield his vulnerability.

He trusts Crowley. They’ve talked about this at extensive length in writing, and they are on the same page. Crowley is not going to be cruel about it.

And yet.

Some instinct in Aziraphale still expects that if he reaches out only for his own enjoyment, a lightning bolt will come cracking down from the sky and incinerate them both. He’s gotten away with so much; how arrogant to assume he could get away with more! Even putting his feelings in writing seems an excessively bold move, although it is the quiet, subtle variety of transgression Heaven might not have noticed even at their most intrusive, so it isn’t anywhere near as dangerous as touching, holding, kissing. Strictly speaking, Heaven isn’t the primary concern anyway. His concern is how the Almighty Herself might react.

Logically, of course, if the Almighty were going to levy a punishment, She likely would have done it by now. Additionally, given everything that happened surrounding Armageddon, it’s possible all the things he’s ever been told about demons is inaccurate in the first place.

Still, look at history. One must admit the Almighty’s punishments can be unpredictable. With only his own deductions to replace the instructions he’d once been given by Heavenly authority ( _do not fraternise with the enemy_ ), the notion of moving forward is daunting indeed. Besides, if any craving for intimacy is going to be entertained at all, it’s hard to tell what might earn the worse punishment. In a technical sense, Earthly touch is not necessarily the most intimate thing two supernatural beings can do together. But perhaps that is exactly why indulging in fleshly pleasures with a demon here on Earth would be considered worse. Dirty. Inferior.

Aziraphale considers the _actual_ most intimate things he could do with Crowley and his head swims.

“Everything okay?” Crowley interrupts, frowning as he studies Aziraphale’s face. Oh, bother, he’s lost the thread of their conversation in all his worrying.

“Yes! Yes, fine, it’s fine,” Aziraphale says.

“You look—“

“I’m thinking,” Aziraphale snaps. “Sorry, no, it’s fine, I’m just. Thinking.”

They continue on their way. Crowley keeps his hands in his pockets for another quarter of an hour. Even as Aziraphale is getting ready to give up on harnessing his courage today, Crowley shifts, his hand suddenly available. Aziraphale reaches for it. Takes it.

“Ah. Angel?”

Aziraphale finds himself incapable of meeting Crowley’s eyes, even from behind those glasses. This is the closest they’ve come to acting out any of the subjects they discuss in their letters.

“All right?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods. “S’good.”

“How about another go around the park?”

“Sounds good to me.”

A silence falls over them; it’s perfectly companionable, but it would be nice if Aziraphale’s scrambled mind could think of something to say. Or if Crowley would say something--

“You’re kind of shaking,” Crowley observes.

No! Not that!

“Little case of nerves is all,” Aziraphale says, voice pitching a bit higher than he’d intended. “Just a little new to all this!”

“You know, you really don’t have to,” Crowley says softly. And it doesn’t take the nerves away, per se, but a wave of warmth washes over them with the concern in Crowley’s voice, the certainty that he will still be here, whether Aziraphale casts his hand aside and never takes it again or sweeps him up in an embrace here and now.

“But I want to,” Aziraphale answers, as warmly as he can, squeezing Crowley’s palm to his own. No thunder shatters the sky open, and the shakes even out. By the time he and Crowley part ways, promising to meet again for their weekly meal tomorrow, Aziraphale is raw and alive.

* * *

Monday, 26 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I find myself still thinking about the whole issue of kissing and that activity you mentioned previously which shall not be directly named again.

I must confess, it would be interesting to make the attempt at French kissing. To be so close to you, to feel your mouth move against mine - I wish to at least have the experience. To know you in that way. As I was saying, your lips look so extraordinarily kissable, and I know full well how patient you’d be as we learned how to do it right. I’m assuming you don’t have experience either, although of course it is quite all right if you do.

I didn’t properly tell you how lovely it was holding your hand on our walk. I know it sounds silly to you, but when I indulge in you a great deal, I start to expect punishment, for one of us to disappear or something awful like that. You see, I’m a creature of habit, and six thousand years of following a certain set of rules has me slightly terrified of breaking them, even though there may be less to them than we’d initially thought.

I am, slowly but surely, moving forward.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

27/7/2021

Angel,

Take your time. We don’t need to do anything you’d rather not. Go on, wait another six thousand years and you’ll still know where to find me.

With that said, I liked the handholding. No complaints about that. Like I mentioned, it might be nice to extend that to other types of holding, too.

When and if you want, we’ll get so ridiculously cosy your cocoa couldn’t even compare. I’m flexible on the whole thing, but ideally, I want you to relax. Does being held, not in a forceful way but in a mushy soft nesting way, appeal to you? I’d like to curl around you like a snake, I guess, but one that’s also a very comfortable blanket, and fall asleep with my fool face against your absurd fluffy soft hair, soaking in your warmth.

And yeah, if you were up for it, I’d like to kiss you. I’d like to plant insufferably soft little pecks on your forehead and cheeks, and right on the tip of your nose, too. You think my lips look kissable? Aziraphale, look in the mirror.

I want to know what it’s like to press my face all up in your face and whether you’re really as soft as you look. If you’d have it, I’d like to taste you, and I don’t know why, but I also want to be sliding my tongue gently against yours on an embarrassingly regular basis.

Maybe I’ll regret sending this. It’s a lot. Don’t take it as a request, because it’s not; I want you to take your sweet old time.

Anyway, the fact remains that I think about these things, and now you know.

Crowley

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co. Wednesday, 28 July 2021. Evening.**

Oh. Oh, dear. Crowley’s cologne combined with the coarse honesty in his words...how irresistible.

Aziraphale presses his hand to his trousers, between his legs, and gasps softly. Just the lightest touch is impossibly tantalizing when thoughts of Crowley are involved.

Aziraphale had discovered masturbation in Rome. He’s never had sex with anyone else, but he quietly taught himself how to do it behind closed doors, even as he continued to feel profoundly awkward about the risk of getting involved in any social sexual encounters.

It had only been in the twentieth century that he’d finally connected sexuality with Crowley. He’s found himself using it on more than one occasion to sublimate his desire for closeness, stimulating himself to the thought of Crowley’s hand on his corporation’s most sensitive parts, Crowley’s scent in his nose, Crowley’s voice in his ear as the two of them hold a fearless embrace.

Aziraphale’s erection presses hard inside his trousers. He leans back in his desk chair and runs his hand over it, base to head and back again, savours the teasing pressure of his own fingers.

He imagines being held by Crowley at the same time, pleasured with his face nestled under Crowley’s chin, breathing this very cologne, listening to Crowley whisper.

What would he whisper? _Whatever you want. It’s alright. I adore you. I want to kiss you._ Things he’s already said.

There can be no knowing, without asking first, whether Crowley would want to engage in sex in the first place. Maybe he would only want to engage in an embrace and a kiss. Maybe even that would prove to be too much, taken out of the fantasy of writing and put into the reality of the physical world. Whatever the case may be, Aziraphale will always be fulfilled simply by being in Crowley’s presence.

But then again, if he is interested...Aziraphale’s cock twitches at the prospect. He slips his hand into his trousers to stroke himself in earnest before growing impatient and pushing them down entirely.

Instead of watching Aziraphale rut into his own palm, perhaps Crowley would do the favour of stimulating him. Perhaps Crowley would be understanding, and wouldn’t think Aziraphale was debasing himself by indulging his corporation in pleasure. Perhaps Crowley would even gaze at him, curious and encouraging, as he does during dessert and during performances.

Aziraphale whimpers, imagining the gentleness he knows those eyes are capable of, his movements becoming more desperate.

Maybe Aziraphale would have a shot at bringing Crowley to orgasm, too. Crowley so rarely expresses raw enjoyment without the edges of reticence or sarcasm. Certainly, if he was open to it, Aziraphale could bring him there. He’d learn how Crowley likes to be touched and tasted - it couldn’t be _that_ difficult, could it? Would Crowley be the sort of person who vocalises, maybe with that sort of low moan he uses when he’s sinking into the sofa after a long day? Or maybe he’d go speechless, climaxing in a silent gasp...

Alongside his fantasy, Aziraphale climaxes, too. But he is not silent. He chokes out a cry of Crowley’s name as he spills into his hand, dripping into his trousers.

Well. That was embarrassingly quick. Aziraphale sits with his eyes closed and hand still for a few seconds, letting the pleasant aftershocks settle before miracling away the mess.

And then he pulls his trousers back up. Manoeuvring his chair closer to the desk again, Aziraphale begins to write.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take it slow face to face, but in writing, they surge forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the usual suspects: [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies) for betaing!
> 
> Please note, I know where this is going, pretty much, and it involves some tropes I wasn't counting on in the beginning. One is wing stuff - not necessarily kink, just intimacy - and the other means there will probably be some abstract non-physical angel sex involved in the future. I did add them to the tags ahead of time in case someone wants to bow out before we actually arrive at them in the story.
> 
> As always, thank you for all your lovely comments, kudos, bookmarks, and tumblr/Discord support. : )

Wednesday, 28 July 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I believe you may underestimate your ability to communicate by writing.

You see, it is true that you don’t write very poetically; in my opinion, you’re avoiding it outright. With that said, sometimes your unique voice emanates so well from your written language that I can almost hear you speaking when I read. This has rather an intense effect on me, my dear, especially when it is accompanied by the meaning you put into that letter. When I received it, I waited to open it until the end of the day, when the shop was closed. The fragrance of your cologne tantalised me all afternoon.

I’ve never engaged in any such activity as holding another person before, not really. I’ve been embraced a few times; these things used to be more culturally accepted when I wasn’t living in England, before England existed, even. It has been a long time, however. And none of them were like you, Crowley. Although they built this world from the material they were given, no one has done quite so much to make this place feel like a home.

With thoughts of holding you come fears of being torn apart. This is why taking your hand caused me to tremble so. I feel as if I am stuck, very slowly proving to myself that despite whatever we may have been told, we will be permitted, at least by the Almighty, to pursue our own path in peace.

But yes, when at last I reach that place of calmness…I look forward to the embrace we might share. I rather fancy the idea of being all wrapped up in you. You will have to allow me to face you, so I can look at you properly. I want to trace the sharpness of your cheekbones, run my fingers along your chin and stroke your hair. Last time I touched it, I discovered how soft it was. The chance to linger on it would be exceptionally lovely.

As you know, I’d quite like to kiss you as well. I framed it as curiosity about the act, but in reality, it is about you. I want to understand the supposed intensity of that connection and make it with you.

Until then, I will have to content myself with holding your hand. May we do it again?

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, Friday, 30 July 2021. Late morning.**

_May we do it again?_! Who does he think he is? Is he only being cute or does he really believe there’s a chance he’d be refused? He’s going to drive Crowley five times as far out of his mind as Hell ever did.

Crowley has found himself lounging on his bed - belly-down, in true serpent style - contemplating the letter. It had seemed appealing, at first, to go to bed and fall asleep with the warm bloom of affection in his chest. Of course, that isn’t the only heat he’s feeling.

 _I rather fancy the idea of being all wrapped up in you._ Crowley imagines what it might be like to do that, to be pressed that close. What an idea for a demon to entertain.

He pushes his hips forward to sate the erection he’s already sporting from this exciting new routine, these perfumed confessions with so much physicality to them. There’s an unexpected delight in the friction of his satin sleep pants against his cock, but for a moment, the embarrassment of being so worked up over all this gooey sentimentality gives him pause.

Oh, why bother stopping? No one’s here to see him humping his mattress. He slowly presses and circles his hips, thinking the whole time of Aziraphale, of having an angel in his arms and between his legs.

Maybe they could slot their legs together and kiss at the same time. Crowley isn’t sure how gratifying his own thin, snakey thighs would be, but Aziraphale’s...they’re luscious, is what they are, and they’d be so, so good to rub off against…

The bed isn’t enough. Crowley grabs one of his pillows, one of those memory foam types that would be very expensive if they weren’t dreamed up out of pure firmament, and shoves it between his legs. He sighs out loud at the satisfying pressure of it.

If Aziraphale were here for real, Crowley would find something witty and pleasurable to say to him, perhaps reach between his legs and finish him off if his own bony thigh wasn’t doing the trick.

Crowley grits his teeth and ruts into the pillow. In his fantasy, Aziraphale’s semen is hot on his hip.

There’s a _whoosh_ and a tug on Crowley’s upper back as he too climaxes, his wings unfurling onto this plane of existence. Their shadows stretch across each side of the bed, across the floor.

“Well, that’s, er, that’s new,” Crowley says to the empty room. He nearly forgets to clean up before glancing back at the shiny black feathers. He studies them, observing the different lengths.

With this, he’s _very much_ involving the un-Earthly side of things. They aren’t even beyond holding hands yet; better tuck those thoughts away for now. Mostly. There is _one_ interesting thing he can do with them...

Without a doubt, his primaries are the most impressive, but there’s no way they’ll fit in an envelope. Instead, Crowley gently plucks a small covert from the interior of his wing, somewhere fairly close to his body, a spot he’ll wrap around the angel once he has permission.

* * *

30/7/2021

Aziraphale,

I didn’t know you had it in you to write your intentions with such crystalline clarity. Guess I should have known from all that literature you live in and among.

Of course we can hold hands again - I cannot believe I just wrote that sentence, but here we are. What shall we do next time? See a movie? Try another performance?

I want you to be able to relax. It might be a silly notion, because what can one demon do against the universe? Still, when we get there, I’d like you to believe you can. I know I could, with you.

To my understanding, kissing is the sort of thing that sounds simple but takes a while to master. I want to learn it with you just as we’ve discovered so many pleasures of the world together. I don’t want it to be just smashing our lips against each other, I want it to be more. I know for an undeniable fact that your hair is about five times as soft as mine, literally cloudlike, which is a cliche if I ever saw one. I’ve never been one for cloud-based fantasies, but to kiss you and run my hands through your hair…well, if you’re doing that to me, I might as well try it on you, too.

I’d sort of like to touch you anywhere you’d have me. Reading what you’re willing to write gets me going, angel. Hardly know what to do with myself. Picked up some human habits along the way for, you know, tension relief. I’m not complaining, it’s fun. I’m just saying.

Anyway, I could give you a great wing massage, I’ll bet. Not that I have any practice, demons don’t really go for that kind of thing, but maybe it’s another pastime we could learn together. Someday. Not too soon.

You know I’m not one for obedience, by definition, but I can hardly blame you for worrying. For my money, we’re as close to doing what we’re “meant” to as we could possibly get.

Crowley

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Sunday, 1 August 2021. Afternoon.**

Sundays are now, ironically, an anchor of sorts for Crowley. They always involve the longest get-togethers.

On this particular day of rest, they’ve been in the bookshop, sitting together for five hours, Aziraphale reading as he presses against Crowley’s side. Aziraphale rests his hand tentatively on the side of Crowley’s thigh, while Crowley lightly covers the angel’s fingers with his own. In a mystery to anyone but the two entities, the phonograph never runs out of record to play. Crowley is dozing comfortably to a rendition of Handel.

They’ve been seeing each other more lately, nipping out for coffee or going for a short walk in the park. Aziraphale has been, even more than usual, a bundle of excited nerves. He calls Crowley as often as Crowley calls him, happy but restrained, and opts for short phone calls or bustles back to his shop in a hurry after their conversation starts to peter out. Being invited in today was a relief, a break from the constant motion.

In any case, Aziraphale doesn’t mention the letters in person at all. That’s all fine, if amusingly odd. The tension between them isn’t what Crowley would expect if he’d only been told about their little exchanges in theory; it certainly helps how heartily they’ve both agreed to keep writing as its own separate channel of communication.

Writing and feathers, strictly speaking.

Aziraphale catches Crowley watching him out of the corner of his eye, because he’s gone and left his glasses off again. Crowley forces a blink and glances away.

“Getting restless?” Aziraphale asks, his hand tensing, barely perceptibly, under Crowley’s.

“No, no. Just, uh, looking around. Basking in the moment, so to speak.”

This earns a megawatt smile from the angel.

“Turn that down,” Crowley gripes. “Gonna blind me.”

Aziraphale’s beaming smile turns into a self-satisfied little smirk as he lingers for a moment on Crowley’s face and goes back to reading his book.

“What?” Crowley asks, perfectly aware that his face is too hot and his unnecessary pulse is rushing.

“Oh, I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it with your face.”

Aziraphale sighs and looks over once again, still smug as Heaven. “You like it. I can tell.”

Crowley scoffs. “Like what? I can certainly stand what we’re doing now, if that’s what’s got you all excited.”

Aziraphale lifts their hands, which are now clasped together in a sturdy hold. “You acted like you were annoyed at how happy I was, but look at this. You squeezed my hand so tightly when you saw. And you didn’t let go.”

Crowley stares, short-circuiting and then rapidly rebooting into the most suave persona he can muster. He leans very slightly closer to Aziraphale. “Oh, there’s no use denying it. I do like to make you happy, angel. Thought that much was obvious.”

Aziraphale isn’t looking so smug anymore. Lips parted, he leans in closer to Crowley, too.

“How is it that you know how to do it so well?” He raises his brow in a question, gazing earnestly into Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley gives a tiny shrug. He could slip in a comment about temptation being his primary talent, but now wouldn’t be the time even if it were true. “Well, it’s not as if it isn’t fun for me, too,” he whispers instead, and glances down at those pretty, soft pink lips, which are being gingerly wet by the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue.

A beat. Crowley leans in even closer.

“W— wait. Hold on,” Aziraphale says, pulling back a little, casting about in anxiety. “I just need a moment.” He takes a deep breath, fidgeting with Crowley’s hand. He takes it in both of his.

“Let’s just stop here, yeah?” Crowley suggests. Aziraphale meets his gaze.

“You don’t…?”

“I do. But we’re rushing. That’s not necessary. We’ll take our time.”

They remain just that way, side by side and holding hands, with a few breaks to grab beverages and biscuits, for another five hours.

* * *

Monday, 2 August 2021.

Dear Crowley,

It was an intense encounter we had yesterday. I enjoyed myself rather immensely. It isn’t only the sense of closeness, although that is very nice indeed, but the way you demonstrate, over and over, that you will respect my wishes. It makes one feel exceptionally known.

As rarely as we stretch our wings anymore, I’d recognize that lovely feather anywhere. It would be delightful to share wing massages with you; manifesting them here in this physical realm is a rather bulky experience compared to the spiritual realm, so I can only imagine the relief of having someone give them a proper seeing-to. Not that I’ve had them out much at all since the old days, mind you.

I indulged in some very personal thoughts about you thanks to that letter. If you’re implying what I think you are, we must have had quite similar ideas.

Incidentally, I’m more than a little interested in what you have to say about what we’re meant to be doing. An interesting observation, coming from you.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

4/8/2021

Aziraphale,

Alright, let’s be frank about it. I think we are talking about the same thing here. If I’m mistaken, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I think of you, angel, and touch myself. Different parts, I like to mix it up, but the same thoughts. You send these letters detailing all the ways you want to be intimate human-style, and I get fascinated, unbearably excited, and it comes out the only way I’ve figured out how to channel it. I get so turned on, I just...get off to you, thinking about you enjoying yourself as much as I am.

Is that creepy? If it’s creepy I’ll stop.

When I talk about what we’re meant to be doing...I’m not sure we’re ever going to see eye to eye on the exact mechanics of it, and maybe I shouldn’t even have brought it up. Let’s just say it seems likely to me that we’re OK, if you look at everything that’s happened. That’s probably not very satisfactory, is it? Call it a gut feeling, I suppose.

Alright. Might as well write it, since I can’t seem to leave well enough alone. On my worst days, I suspect nothing we do matters. In the end, when it’s really The End, maybe She’ll just make a mean, capricious decision about how to treat us no matter how hard we try. That’s the part I know you’ll disagree with most. Can’t help it, though. That’s my worry, pointless as it is.

On my best days, I suspect the only Plan She ever had was for us - I mean everyone, not literally just us - to choose who to be so She could watch how it all turns out. I mean, where’s the fun in making people with free will if you’re going to tell them how to use it? All the weird games She played, they were about that all along, I always thought.

I don’t know. I’m babbling here. None of it has ever made real, coherent sense to me. When you get right down to it, I guess it’s just a disagreement on how to play the game. Or if we should play it at all.

Anyway, that’s what I meant. It’s nothing I haven’t said before, though I don’t believe we’ve gone round about it since Armageddon.

I’ll see you soon, probably before this letter gets to you.

Crowley

* * *

Friday, 6 August 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I find it immensely charming that you seem worried about offending me _now_. Have you not spent the last six thousand years implying all sorts of things about the Almighty?

I have been entertaining a few thoughts on that matter, too. One is that you and I were meant to meet and nothing we do together could ever be wrong. That is the most beautiful, comforting thing I can imagine, for our unity to somehow be written into the fabric of the universe...even as I write, I’m overtaken by wistfulness for that surety. It could, after all, be Her Plan.

And yet, we haven’t been given surety. I suspect it would defeat the point. I have been considering the same possibility you were, in a manner of speaking, that this whole thing has been a roundabout way of teaching and testing free will...but how could we know each step we take closer to each other isn’t one too many? We aren’t _supposed_ to know. Since Armageddon, I’ve been running on the assumption that our successes mean we were correct, but is that excessively presumptuous?

Oh, I don’t know whether I’m overthinking or under-thinking. I have often been asked to encourage humans to have faith. I suppose there comes a point where I must have it, too.

It would be possible to write reams of pages discussing my hopes and fears, but in truth, it isn’t the only thing I wanted to write to you about. Your letters have been immensely inspiring, and I wish to return the sentiment.

My thoughts about your letters are much the same as your thoughts about mine. I’m grateful that you’ve chosen to share. There is absolutely no need for you to stop.

That feather I sent on Monday was the result of your writing, in fact. I, too, have taken to channeling my desires for you in a physical way, Crowley, and I brought myself all the way to a rather heady climax. It was so overwhelming my wings materialised on this plane. Is that where your feather came from, by any chance?

Look at this. I’m writing soft pornography. So be it…

I have thought about it, and I’m so very curious about what sorts of acts you would find pleasurable. Personally, I have sometimes daydreamed about tasting you, as ridiculous as that may sound. You know I’d like your lips against mine, of course - I wonder if you would taste like wine, or dark chocolate?

But I also want to kiss you all over your corporation, every inch. If you would care to manifest private parts during such a moment, I’d like to please you with my mouth. Whatever you choose, I believe I could learn how to bring you to physical ecstasy. It wouldn’t be a selfless endeavor; the idea of kissing, licking, sucking you to your climax, watching you melt into your pleasure...that would satisfy me like nothing else.

And now I’ve gone and worked myself up. Oh, dear.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale dive into writing erotic letters to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies), and [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree) (who smoothed this story out quite a lot) for betaing!
> 
> We're in the home stretch! There's a lot of smut in this chapter, including swapped genitals compared to earlier chapters. I didn't tag specific parts from the get-go because I've been planning to switch them around. Just a bit of a warning if you aren't comfortable with the idea.

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, Monday, 9 August 2021. Late Morning.**

Right. That was one Hell of a— er, one Heaven of a...hmm. That was a capital-L Letter.

As strong as the urge to seek release is, Crowley doesn’t exactly want to fall over the edge just yet. To be trusted with words this vulnerable, words that Aziraphale certainly must worry will be judged, is to be given a gift. Crowley would like to savor the moment. So, pleasantly overwhelmed, he crawls into bed and wraps himself in his luxurious black blankets, planning to meditate. Or nap and have an _incredibly_ stimulating dream. Whatever.

He grins. He imagines it’s the roguish, wicked grin of a temptation accomplished. It probably is. And its wickedness is probably only slightly offset by the fact that he’s still clutching the letter to his chest inside the blanket.

For Aziraphale to be this direct in writing is the best absurd twist the universe has taken. Okay, maybe it’s the third best after Armageddon not happening (this could never have happened before Armageddon, of course) and having Aziraphale as the Angel of the Eastern Gate in the first place. Alright, having the body swap go off without a hitch was pretty fortunate, too…

During that corporation switch, Crowley had missed his own corporation, of course, accustomed to a much lankier and more bendy sort of existence. But in an additional twist of surreality added on to the experience of coming out on the other side of Armageddon, it’s exceptionally lonely, occupying someone else’s body without them in it or nearby. As much as it had been a relief to regain his own corporation, it had been just as relieving to regain the angel at his side as well.

Anyway. Their corporations might be more like clothes are to humans than like immutable parts of themselves, but being told that his is desirable by the one specific person he also wants to touch still holds a unique thrill. After all, Crowley has spent so many millennia in it. It’s part of him by experience now, if not in literal terms.

And Aziraphale...wants to please him with it. He likes the idea so much he gets off on it himself, apparently. Crowley has known for a long time that he’s cared for, that Aziraphale wants him to be safe. But to know the angel is so fascinated by the idea of pleasing him, that he doesn’t just want Crowley to be happy but to be indulged, and he wants to be the one to _make it happen_...that’s the part that really, truly drives Crowley wild.

How would Aziraphale do the things he wrote about? Would he let Crowley recline and enjoy getting licked or sucked into oblivion? Or would he rather be underneath, have his face ridden or gently fucked?

No longer willing to wait, Crowley shoves the covers off and puts the letter aside on the corner of his bed.

He sits up and begins to rub his trousers over his clit. Not enough, not at this level of desperation, anyway; he miracles his clothes off to get to the good part in a rush. With consideration for how fast and hard he’s likely to come, he preemptively spreads his wings. It’d be annoying if they popped out of nowhere and started knocking things around.

“Oh, angel,” he breathes out loud, already so slick it feels he should be dripping as he slides his fingers in and begins to move them, hips making little rotations as they seek more.

This isn’t the best angle. He leans all the way forward on his knees, holding himself up with his left hand on the bed as the other works his cunt, wings high and stiff over his back.

Would Aziraphale masturbate during the action, show Crowley just how frantic all this mutual pleasure gets him? Whose orgasm would arrive first?

Crowley’s wings open wider as his climax builds. Stretched all the way on each side of the bed, they span almost the entire room, and he beats the air with several strokes as he comes, hissing Aziraphale’s name.

* * *

9/8/2021

Aziraphale,

Once again, you leave me struggling for words. I can either make this short or let your letter go unanswered for days, so short it is.

To have your mouth on me, treating me like a delicacy of some sort...yes. Yes. That’s all I can say.

I don’t know about you, but I can go with either set of parts or, frankly, anything in-between. I’ve tried everything I’ve ever learned about, and my preference depends on the mood of the day.

What I’ve been fantasising about for the past two hours, angel, over and over, is having a clit, and you licking me absolutely mad, screwing me with your fingers while you get yourself off at the same time.

I’d gladly have a go at you, too.

Crowley

* * *

**A café in Soho, Wednesday, 11 August 2021. Early Afternoon.**

Aziraphale lets himself think about Crowley’s recent letter while they’re together, in _public_ , no less.

Crowley reads a newspaper, chuckling gleefully at some of the more ridiculous headlines, and sips his black coffee - which he doesn’t know Aziraphale knows has a considerable amount of sugar in it. Aziraphale munches on toast, enjoying his own cappuccino, and watches the world go by on the sidewalk.

That letter’s main effect has been worked off, of course. This time, he’d worn a vulva, just for the empathic fantasy of it, and fingered himself to orgasm three times, thinking of how he might make Crowley feel, what he’d taste like, the things he might say in the throes of passion.

In contrast, being with Crowley now is a more diffuse, all-encompassing glow, just as warm without the precision-targeted ache for release at the pleasure centres of his corporation. He puts his left hand on the table; Crowley takes it right away.

Aziraphale does get the excited, jumpy sensation of _wanting_ to be closer, but being afraid, but wanting it so _very_ much and believing it surely must be fine, right? But he doesn’t get the urge to throw himself at Crowley and cast all their clothes aside in the same way he gets the urge to satisfy himself when one of Crowley’s sultry letters arrives. To be fair, if forced to choose between the letters and the company, he’d choose the company. But he does enjoy the letters quite a lot, so it’s immensely fortunate he doesn’t have to choose.

One must wonder if it is possible to condition oneself into unusual sexual tastes. During certain moments of Soho’s history, he has heard of such things.

Blending the two, acting on the contents of the letters...it sets his heart to pounding. He wants it. Will want it. And yet he’ll have to be comfortable with holding, with being held, with a lot more bodily contact than holding hands.

The courage is building, though, and besides, there’s no need to rush. What they’re doing now is already far more lovely than he’d once imagined possible.

“How’s the cappuccino?” Crowley asks.

“Oh! It’s delicious. Very velvety.”

“Velvety. Well, you’ve been holding it up for minutes without taking a sip, so it looked like something was wrong.”

“Certainly not. I’m just a little lost in thought.”

“About what?”

Aziraphale uses a sip of his beverage to disguise his smile. “About good things, don’t worry.”

Crowley looks mildly bemused, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand as he goes back to his paper.

* * *

Thursday, 12 August 2021.

Dear Crowley,

You asked what I was thinking of yesterday. I was thinking of our letters. I couldn’t mention them at the time, all things considered, but they were on my mind.

With regards to your last...someday, yes, I would like to service you with my mouth while stimulating myself. I have to imagine you would be too luscious for me to last long, however. We would have to go a few rounds. That would be wonderful.

The deeper I get into these fantasies, the more I daydream about being entirely intertwined with you. About having our bodies together, naked, no clothing between us. The joy of being close to you has me thinking, I suppose, about skin on skin contact. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced beyond my hands, and you are the only one I would want to experience it with. Perhaps we could be naked together.

On one hand, I find it unnecessary to pair nudity and sex. I do believe I would like to simply spend the time together.

On the other hand, I would also, someday, like to kiss you and take your cock inside me, or possibly do it the other way around; either sounds delightful. I want to do it all at once, embracing you and kissing you with the pleasure of our orgasms building, hopefully in tandem.

I can only imagine it would be quite intense...

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

14/8/2021

Aziraphale,

I’ve been wondering about what it all means. Why do I get off on thinking about you? Why would we even be capable of all this? I mean, it’s fun, but I suspect there’s more to it.

I’m not talking about Plans here. Just what it means for _me_.

Maybe it’s the Earthly-ness of the whole thing. Not all humans like or want sex, but you have to admit it is pretty popular here. It doesn’t exist in Heaven or Hell, and I’ve heard rumours about the weird stuff they do out in the stars, but I don’t have any attachment to that.

In the past, way back, I thought human sex sounded a bit gross. But combine a little knowledge about how good it feels, and the fact that both of our insufferable bureaucracies think it’s too _human_ for us, and the possibility of doing it with you (someday)...then it’s actually appealing.

About the mushy stuff you wrote, I’d like it all with you, you know.

If you were in the mood, I’d like to spend a long while, ages, getting you good and ready, turning you on. Figuring out how you like to be touched, between your legs and everywhere else, too. And when you’re wide open and waiting for me, I want to slip my cock deep inside you.

At the same time, I want to jerk you off in my hand, or rub your clit, whatever you want, explore what your body does as you get close to your climax. I want to hear what you sound like at your most carried away, and then I want you to come, angel, while I’m still inside.

We could do it as many times as we want. And afterwards, wine and wing massages.

Crowley

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Monday, 16 August 2021. Afternoon.**

By the time he finishes reading the letter, Aziraphale is already obscenely hard. It’s fortunate he had switched the sign to “closed” before unsealing the envelope.

Oh, dear. Oh, goodness. He needs his hand. He slips his hand over his erection and rubs it through the fabric, thrusting his hips into his own palm. He lets his wings open - it wouldn’t do if they appeared by surprise and knocked over a pile of books.

“Crowley,” he breathes.

Aziraphale stands to reach into his trousers, and they might adjust according to his wishes but he really isn’t that invested in miracle conservation right now. He leans forward, right hand holding him up over his desk.

The fragrances from Crowley’s letters - there are several he’s sent covered in cologne - permeate the air just close enough to sense. Aziraphale mantles his wings around himself, holding that lovely scent close. Meanwhile, the black feather rests in the drawer underneath his hand.

Aziraphale groans, already primed with a bead of anticipation on his cock, knowing this is going to be too quick for any more coherent fantasies. The letter _is_ the fantasy. Aziraphale strokes himself off with a moan and the vague thought of taking Crowley in up to his hilt, lasting for almost no time at all before finishing all over the floor.

* * *

**An abandoned orchard in Sussex, Tuesday, 17 August 2021. Mid-morning.**

Three days after that frantic orgasm, Aziraphale takes time off from the shop.

“Can I tempt you to a croissant, dear?”

“Hmm. Where are they from?”

“I made them, of course.”

“Well, then. Hand it over.”

It’s a beautiful morning, the shade cool at the edge of a wooded spot which looks over a series of hills rolling in the sun.

Crowley is in a good mood after travelling farther in one hour than should be possible, and his speeding, while formidable, is slightly less nerve-wracking for Aziraphale when they’re not in central London. That previous Sunday, Aziraphale had mentioned wanting to go for a picnic soon, and Crowley had offered to drive them somewhere away from their usual city haunts. This suits Aziraphale very well, considering what he plans to broach here.

There are old apple trees, no longer tended by humans, contributing to the poetry of the moment where the two have settled with a thick burgundy blanket. It’s fortunate this spot is still intact; Aziraphale had got to know it around a century ago, and it hasn’t been ravaged by housing developments. Aziraphale hopes it stays that way.

He’d suggested this place for a reason. It sets him at ease, and the apples among nature evoke an earlier time. They evoke not only his assignment a hundred years ago, but a time much earlier than that: more than six thousand years in the past.

Aziraphale sits neatly as he once did when it was required for the human lifespan he spent playing the role of a monk. Crowley, recently full of pastry, lounges on his back, one hand behind his head and the other on their blanket.

“Crowley.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale reaches over to take Crowley’s hand. “The letters. Your most recent one.”

The energy between them shifts, in the way the air vibrates around a lock as it’s unbolted. Crowley takes his glasses off and studies Aziraphale’s face.

“Well. As far as meanings go, what all of this, ah, physicality is about. I think I agree with you. About how it’s unique to Earth. And Earth is special to us.”

“Mm. True.” Crowley does not move his eyes from Aziraphale’s.

“Or at least, that’s the philosophical perspective. The truth is that even if I couldn’t see a bigger picture, I would simply like the things we write to each other because of my feelings for you.”

Crowley looks at their handhold, gently rubs his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Yeah, angel. It’s mutual.”

Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath. “It is exactly as I wrote several times over. I want to kiss you. And I wish to do it now.”

“You can. Only if you’re ready.”

“I am.”

Aziraphale leans over, while Crowley leans up. Oh, his lips look so kissable.

It isn’t comfortable, craning his neck, and it can’t be comfortable for Crowley, either. Aziraphale lets himself half-fall, half-roll to the blanket. Crowley, startled, looks Aziraphale up and down for a beat, then rolls so they meet face to face. He joins their other hands now, entwining their fingers.

Once again, Aziraphale remembers the desire that came over him a few years ago at Tadfield Manor. His corporation’s pulse jumps erratically. Funny how he’s become so accustomed to this body that in moments of high emotion, it now reacts more as one would expect a human body to react than as a corporation piloted by an angel would. Then again, he could change that. He chooses not to.

Nothing bad happens as he stays close with Crowley, with the full intention of kissing him. No bolt of lightning. Nobody disappears.

There’s nothing but a gentle breath from Crowley as he hums, a question in his voice. Aziraphale nods and leans in.

Their mouths meet, the slightest touch, and then another, and then _another_ , and how can something so soft have Aziraphale feeling like he’s going to shake apart? He trembles, putting all his trust in Crowley’s lips, every piece of himself using that one repeated point of contact as a guide, a North star, to arrive at the same place of warmth.

After too many little kisses to count, Aziraphale leans back to assess Crowley’s reaction.

Crowley is shaking, too. He brings their hands up and flattens his palm against Aziraphale’s. Neither of them can hold perfectly still.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Goodness. Look at us.”

“Couple of old foolsss,” Crowley mutters, once again interlocking their fingers.

“You? What are you nervous about?”

“I’m not usssed to it. People who know what I am don’t usually...well, they’ve never. Er. Nobody has ever _kissed_ me. And they don’t launch themselves at me, either.”

“I did not launch.”

“Ehhh. Felt like a launch if you ask me.”

Aziraphale, still shaking with six thousand years of repressed wants and fears all rushing to the surface, closes his eyes and smiles. “Whatever you want to call it. Can we stay like this for a while?”

“Y-yeah, sure. Not a problem.”

Hours are supposed to be nothing to eternal entities, but a few at a time make a good start for satisfying the combined anxieties and cravings of immortals who’ve gone native on Earth. Crowley stops shaking first, and Aziraphale looks to his serenely napping features for steadiness. It isn’t, in relative terms, too long before Aziraphale can relax, too, pulling Crowley’s hand to his lips before leaning over to wake him with a kiss again. Crowley pouts half heartedly, as if he needs the sleep, and wiggles the rest of his body closer.

The shadows grow longer, the air cooler. The evening insects begin to sing.

“Would it bother you if I sat up, brought out my wings?” Crowley asks.

“Not at all.” Aziraphale makes the first move toward sitting, taking in the sunset over the fields as Crowley’s wings arch open behind them. “How beautiful this place is. It is getting a bit chilly, though.” He glances at the lovely expanse of black feathers.

“Wings are probably as warm as any other part of me,” Crowley suggests. “Er, not to sound—”

Wordlessly, Aziraphale nudges into his friend’s side, and Crowley wraps him up. He wraps them _both_ up. Together, they watch the day go to sleep and the night come awake.

Aziraphale purses his lips thoughtfully at the diffuse light still hovering on the horizon. “Greed,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“I have everything I need merely to be at your side. I just put a name to it. The thing I’m afraid of is that I’ll be judged too greedy for adding further indulgences. Ones that aren’t strictly necessary, like...this, to some degree. But especially the things we write about.”

“Well, we’ve been over what I normally think about that. It’s not fair. To you, I mean. Given it’s not my place to decide, though, you know we can always stop…”

“No, no,” Aziraphale assures. “It may be self-serving, but I do believe perhaps you and I are the same as any other feature of the world.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a sardonic glance, looking for clarification.

“What I mean to say,” Aziraphale translates, “is that if I’ve been allowed to indulge in everything else about this world for so long, even to weather the end and re-beginning of it at your side, surely I can indulge in you, too. Perhaps it is even _right_.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it in those terms. But I actually can’t say I disagree, angel.”

Aziraphale presses in for another soft kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sends a confessional letter of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the usual suspects: [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies) for betaing! Couldn't possibly do it without you!
> 
> Also, please note that I changed this from an 8-chapter story to 10 chapters! I hope that doesn't bother anyone, but even with the recent increase in pacing, I just don't think it would be wise to fit everything I want to try to write about within 8 chapters.
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone for sticking with me. Your support means the world.

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Wednesday, 18 August 2021. Night.**

“Alright. I suppose I’ll go for the night. See you…?”

“What do you think of brunch again?”

“I think I can drag myself out of bed for ten. I’ll swing by around then.”

“Oh, wait a moment. Just let me…”

“Oh...mm.”

“There we go. Did I bother you?”

“No, no. The opposite.”

“That’s what I was hoping. Mind how you go, dear.”

* * *

Thursday, 19 August 2021.

Dear Crowley,

Kissing you is a wonder. You feel even better than I knew you would. Not that I didn’t believe it would be glorious; my imagination simply couldn’t compare. I am quite overcome with excitement at seeing you so frequently, and at being able to reach out for you when I please.

Perhaps I have been foolish to doubt. Or perhaps I am foolish to carry forward. But, during moments like the ones we had this week, it is difficult not to believe there is something right about us, together, on every level: to be your companion, and your physical lover…

As I write, I am taken with fantasies of being inside you. There is a strange part of my psyche which wishes to be held in every way by you, to be surrounded by your wings, mouth-to-mouth, in your arms, up to my hilt in you. I hope it doesn’t sound uncouth, but I love to imagine spilling inside you, leaking out around myself as you reach your climax, too.

It’s only from reading erotic human works that I can even imagine these scenarios. Perhaps to an experienced audience they would sound ridiculous.

I hope it isn’t too forward, but sometimes I wonder about this sort of intimacy on the metaphysical level, too. It has been so very long since I’ve spoken to anyone who would ever mention it. Since long before the world existed. I would dare to contemplate it for us, however.

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

21/8/2021

Aziraphale,

I can’t speak to moral rightness. I can only admit that my own instincts are more than pleased with what we’ve got going on.

I didn’t used to wank as much as I do now that you’re sending me all this. Reading it is almost like being touched by you. I’m not going to use some of the words that come to mind because you wouldn’t fancy them very much, but let’s just say your writing is sexy. It’s another concept that isn’t supposed to apply to us, and here we are, enjoying it.

I’d be more than happy to get my fill of your orgasm. Imagine, I’d give you more than one, however many you’d let me, until we were both a complete mess with your pleasure. Then I’d miracle it all away. We could start again, if you wanted, or we could go enjoy something else for a while.

It is interesting that you should bring up the metaphysical stuff. Miscere spirituum. Latin is the last language I can remember using to discuss it out loud. Seems it should work, though if we ever tried it, we’d be a bit of an experiment. Reckon we’d want to try it without sex first, but I’ll bet it would be pretty fascinating to do them at the same time...

Crowley

* * *

**London, August and September 2021.**

And so it goes.

Crowley is more content than he’s ever been, making trouble for London for about half the day, possibly stopping home to write about some erotic fantasy mixed with philosophy for Aziraphale, and then going over to the shop for relatively chaste fun the rest of the day. For a month, they carry on this blissful communication, detailing how they’d love to fuck each other in their written notes, kissing gently and holding hands when meeting face to face.

They talk out loud about the letters from time to time, if only in the vaguest of terms. There’s no actual discussion of the acts within, no, it’s always a minor mention, an apology for a delayed response (which makes sense, as they are seeing each other more) or a reference to a work in progress.

Crowley does get the burgeoning of desire in his corporation now and then, especially when he’s lounging with Aziraphale and the angel brings up his writing. It isn’t a painful ache, not like it once would have been; it’s a delicious, slow burn that helps keep him warm, whether or not they will ever act on it, long after he heads out for the day or night.

Something about their back and forth does feel unsettled, however, as if a breath has been taken in and is waiting to be let out. Aziraphale has taken a lot of big steps recently, hasn’t he? Not merely in terms of the physical touching, but in the emotionality of his letters. Crowley’s reciprocated quite well, but he hasn’t brought himself to go all-out yet, always waiting to echo Aziraphale’s sentiments. Aziraphale seems to be, in a spiritual way, approaching Crowley. Crowley wants to do more than just turn toward him. He wants to step forward, too, to match that courage.

It makes him want to follow through on that letter he sent a while ago, about writing something, er, poetic. His more demonic instincts recoil at the sincerity of emotion that’s going to require, but they aren’t the boss of him.

He sits at his desk with a bottle of liquid courage and his pen.

Alright. Maybe poetry isn’t the way to go. Every line is too much or too little, and anyway, rhymes are an absolute fucking bugger.

* * *

5/10/2021

Aziraphale,

I’m going to get slightly drunk and write something to you. Not drunk enough to muck it up, I hope. Although I do plan to also post it under the influence.

That’s what you’ll be reading from here on, from me and this bottle of wine.

I was going to make it poetry, maybe a sonnet? But that’s not working. Too many rules. Prose it is.

I don’t know if this letter can count as a love confession. We’ve exchanged words that mean exactly the same thing, “I adore you” and all that. Also, demons aren’t supposed to love. They definitely do not confess. But there’s no other way to put it, and if we’re using human techniques for communication, we might as well use the words the locals do. Love it is.

For all the tempting I’ve done, you’re the one who taught me what it means to enjoy the world. I don’t know if you did it on purpose. Doesn’t matter. You did it just by existing. And insisting we should do things together for fun instead of business. And introducing me to weird delicacies, temperamental performers...fruity little drinks with umbrellas, even.

You insisted on doing it all exactly like the locals. You are so very stubborn. A creature of habit to the point of absurdity. But like the central pillar of a house. A home.

I couldn’t bear the idea of being separated. Figured even if everything else fell apart, if I could take the core of my home elsewhere with me, it’d be alright. But hindsight is a whole thing. Deep down, I think I could tell for centuries that you didn’t want to leave Earth. And that’s part of what drew me to you.

Still does.

That, all of it, is why I’m so idiotically in love with you. I’m curious about having further experiences with you, pleasures of the flesh and everything, sure. Want to taste your orgasms and get inside each other and all that.

But I was already in love with the debating. And blending into society. The dinners out we’ve been doing for so long. I like your cheesy letters, and drinking wine of varying qualities with you. I really like driving with you screeching like a scandalised Victorian in the passenger seat, and...alright...your lips...I really like kissing you. And. I suspect I’ll like whatever else we get up to eventually. If you still want.

It’s been six millennia. More than six thousand years. That’s time for a lot of rain. Every time it rains, I still think about your wing over my head.

Couldn’t tell you exactly when I got so hopeless, but I do know that day on the Wall was the moment I knew for sure everything was not as it seemed.

So much for putting Will to shame. My prose alternates between sloppy and purple when I’m tipsy. Hope you realize you’re the only being in the universe who could get me to be this pathetic on paper.

Or at all.

Crowley

* * *

**Crowley’s Mayfair Flat, Thursday, 7 October 2021. Early Evening.**

“Hallo...Crowley?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Can you come by the shop, please? Er, at your earliest convenience?”

“Sure, yeah. Something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just want to speak with you post haste.”

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Thursday, 7 October 2021. Evening.**

When Crowley arrives at the shop, it’s closed for everyone but him.

“Hello? Angel?”

“Come in,” sounds Aziraphale’s voice, somewhat subdued, from the sofa.

The angel’s eyes are red and puffy and obviously brimming with tears, but he’s beaming. He pushes up from his seat, striding over to Crowley.

“That letter,” he says, hands clasped nervously in front of him. “The most recent one you sent.”

“Oh, yeah. Er. I’m...sorry?”

“Will you let me embrace you?”

“Yeah, yeah, come here.”

Aziraphale wraps his arms, and also, in short order, his wings, around Crowley.

“It was stunning, Crowley. I’m so sorry for rushing you over, but I simply could not wait for the post to carry my response.”

“I’m, um, glad you liked it,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale is full-on sobbing now, which is...concerning. Crowley pushes him back with extreme care, squeezing his shoulders so he knows he’s not being rejected, only repositioned. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“They’re happy tears,” Aziraphale says, chuckling a bit pathetically. “I’m overwhelmed. But in a good way.”

“That’s fine, then,” Crowley whispers. He takes a moment to cast his glasses aside, onto the desk, and steps into the embrace once again. “Have at.” He brings his hands up Aziraphale’s back, massages the spots where his wings join the rest of him.

Aziraphale shivers and hums contentedly, clinging a few moments before coming back to himself. “Oh, come now, you send me that letter and then you give me a massage? Get out your own wings, will you, so I can do you a favour for once.”

“For once,” Crowley echoes, mocking softly. As if the other favours, the angel’s whole existence, don’t count. But he complies.

Aziraphale mimics precisely the move Crowley had made earlier, running his hands over the stubby bits where Crowley’s wings meet his corporation. He navigates his fingers gently around the scapulars, pressing and stroking the magic-made-flesh without twisting the feathers.

Oh. Oh, fuck. That’s incredible.

It’s an intimate touch, smoothing out rough, knotted pieces of Crowley’s existence that he hadn’t known needed smoothing out. Aziraphale’s hands soothe the place where the supernatural part of Crowley meets the human part.

“Oh, bless it,” Crowley whispers, slumping more of his weight onto Aziraphale, who does not seem to mind at all.

“Is that good?” He sniffles. Crowley believes him now - it’s a happy sniffle.

“Far more than I knew.”

They stand, faces hidden in each other’s shoulders, leaning together as Crowley receives his massage. He finally brings his hands up again, navigating Aziraphale’s scapular feathers the same way.

“Oooh,” Aziraphale breathes. “That is delightful.”

Crowley turns his head and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale meets his lips, as with every soft, chaste kiss they’ve shared to date.

He isn’t particularly thinking about it when he slips his tongue against the angel’s lower lip. Aziraphale gasps.

“Too much?” He’s relaxed and calm and his desires have carried him away, but he’ll stop, he doesn’t mean to push...

Aziraphale’s hands still. “No. No...not at all.”

And he leans forward, kissing Crowley with a new kind of hunger. He’s messy and Crowley isn’t very good at it either, but it doesn’t matter, because this tenderness isn’t for demons, but here is Aziraphale, giving it to Crowley anyway, expressing a raw desire that nobody has for the Fallen and a gentleness that Crowley was once promised he would never know again.

Well. It was not stated in so many words, but heavily implied, Crowley thinks, that part of being thrown out of Heaven and called “the enemy” had involved _not_ being tenderly adored by a very besotted angel.

Determined to be the one of the pair who doesn’t cry - not this second, anyway - Crowley begins to move his hands, once again massaging Aziraphale’s wings as they kiss.

They get better at it rather quickly, drawing overtaken moans from each other between French kisses.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs dreamily for the fifth time, pulling back gently, squaring his shoulders to recompose himself. “Oh, this is delightful, but I can feel your feathers out of place. Will you let me fix them up for you?”

“If you insist,” Crowley says wryly.

“Let’s...hmm. It’s been too long. I barely remember how to do this. Let’s have you sit somewhere comfortable, though I’ll have to be able to get at your back...”

“Floor’s fine,” Crowley blurts.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says hesitantly. “Ah! I’ve got it. Be back in a jiffy!” As he bustles about, his wings flutter out behind him. From the chair by his desk and from the far side of the sofa, he grabs a couple of pillows.

“Now, don’t sit flat on the floor. Use these.”

Crowley finds himself cross-legged, leaning forward, arms resting on his thighs, as Aziraphale sits neatly behind him and picks through his feathers. He runs his hand over the coverts on the outer dorsal side of each wing first, gently sussing out which rough spots will have to be smoothed.

“This isn’t a complaint, dear,” he begins with trepidation, “but I can’t help noticing you punished yourself rather a lot in your letter.”

“Punished myself?” Crowley grumbles, too comfortable to want to interrupt the moment with anything awkward.

Aziraphale pauses, letting the quiet take over for a short while. “Well,” he says at last. “Used insulting language about your feelings. Idiotic, pathetic, hopeless. Do you believe those things are true?”

Crowley bites his lip and sighs as he thinks it over.

“Where I came from, if they find out that you care about someone or something, it’s used against you. Love,” and the word is hard to say out loud, “makes you vulnerable. That’s an objectively stupid thing for a demon to make himself. Besides, most people don’t believe demons are even capable of that sort of thing. Recognising it as stupid right out of the gate means other people can’t get there first.”

“I disagree with you,” Aziraphale says quietly, moving his careful ministrations out to Crowley’s longer, more disheveled secondary coverts. “It’s not stupid.”

“Pff. You’re an angel.”

“Do you really think encouraging love among the ranks of the enemy was on my assignment list from Heaven?”

“...I guess not.”

“Someday soon, perhaps I can write it out for you in a way that makes sense. I’m still a little choked up, you understand. But given that it’s led us to where we are - here on Earth, and in my bookshop - no, it can’t be stupid.”

“Fair enough, angel. You’ve got me. Take your time.”

Aziraphale moves out to Crowley’s primaries. He gingerly realigns a few on each side that are at the wrong angles, and Crowley breathes a sigh of relief.

“The simple pleasures you were talking about - it’s funny you should say I introduced you to them, because in my experience, you introduced them to me.”

“Huh.” Crowley grins. “Funny how that works.”

Aziraphale remains mostly quiet, humming or murmuring “There we are” in satisfaction when he successfully teases another feather into its most comfortable position. Admittedly, getting his primaries groomed isn’t precisely the same for Crowley as having his scapulars massaged, but it’s still a lovely, relaxing sensation.

The moment comes when Aziraphale slips his hands under the wings and strokes at the insides, the parts that fold against Crowley’s body. Crowley takes a deep breath and hums his pleasure - this is an even more intimate touch than the feathers on his back. Somewhere among the ones Aziraphale is stroking now is the spot from which was plucked the covert Crowley had sent in the mail.

“Would you mind if I sat in front of you, so I can do a better job arranging the other side?”

“Not at all.”

Aziraphale kneels at the right position for Crowley to appreciate he’s at eye level, folding his legs again the way he did as a monk. He studies the underside of each wing as though it’s a book restoration project, filling Crowley with a rather unexpected thrill. It’s a quicker job now, because there are fewer feathers he hasn’t already reached.

“Alright. Your turn,” Crowley says when his feathers are at last entirely neatened and Aziraphale sits back to observe his work with an angelic twinkle.

“In fact,” Aziraphale says, “I had a slightly different idea to propose?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side. “What’s that?”

“Well. You can say no.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I thought we could try, er, lying together.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“...With no clothes on.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows.

“No private parts,” Aziraphale rushes. “Only us. And our wings. And our corporations as they are naturally.”

“Sure, angel. Whatever you’d like.”

“Do come upstairs,” Aziraphale says, standing awkwardly, heading for the spiral steps. Crowley nearly begins shaking again with anticipation, the old nerves he’s accustomed to and the thrill these trysts with Aziraphale always inject into him. It’s all bathed in a warm glow, though, with Aziraphale’s eagerness and the smiles he tosses over his shoulder.

The bed in the flat upstairs has probably not been used for decades, if ever. By and large, Aziraphale does not sleep. Crowley suspects it’s a combination of believing that he should not be doing it (“virtue is ever-vigilant”) and deciding it’s a waste of time he could be using to read or reread. But human dwellings always contain a bed somewhere, so he’s sequestered one far out of sight. This isn’t a surprise.

What is something of a surprise is the fact that it’s not too much smaller than Crowley’s bed. Crowley catches him miracling dust off the bedspread, an old thing checkered with an unsurprising beige and blue pattern. Aziraphale pulls the blanket back.

“Nothing for it but to climb in, I suppose.” He glances at Crowley’s wings. “Oh, this will get your feathers all out of place.”

“You’ll just have to tidy them up again.” Crowley winks.

“Only if you’ll get mine first,” Aziraphale says sweetly. “But, ah, could you, perhaps, look away?”

Crowley frowns. “What? Why?”

“While I’m undressing.”

“It’s...I don’t know about you, but I’ve already miracled everything away.”

“It isn’t about that. It’s a bit strange to disrobe in front of anyone.”

Crowley shrugs and turns away.

When Aziraphale says “All right,” Crowley looks back over his shoulder. The angel is in bed, wings folded up at his back, the blanket pulled over his corporation. He pats the mattress.

“Will you join me?” he asks.

Crowley snaps his fingers to rid himself of clothes and immediately understands why Aziraphale had felt exposed. He pulls his wings around himself to cover up as he slips under the blanket and is pulled into a four-limbed embrace - two downy wings, two soft arms.

Aziraphale must have miracled the blanket about twice as big as it was before to cover all these supernatural appendages.

“I don’t know how you’ll feel about hearing it said out loud,” Aziraphale whispers. “I want to say it, though. I am in love with you, Crowley, but I no longer view it as a hopeless thing. Rather the opposite, in fact.”

Crowley stares at him for a moment, then kisses him.

One cannot feel sexual arousal when one has conveniently miracled away all traces of the sexual systems in the body. However, as they lie naked together, sharing heat both biological and celestial, Crowley is happily consumed by a bright spark of intimacy. Aziraphale’s corporation is soft and welcoming, and he is so, so good for kissing and holding. He’s practically a fountain of encouraging noises.

Crowley hasn’t, in any specific way, been told any more answers about the secrets of the universe than he ever has in the past, and yet, in this moment, everything makes sense.

* * *

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Friday, 8 October 2021. Early Morning.**

The next thing Crowley is aware of is a bright patch of sun next to his head.

Aziraphale is no longer in bed, however. Crowley lifts his head to peer around in alarm, wondering if he’s done something wrong, before he notices a note right next to his face.

* * *

Friday, 8 October 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I woke before you and considered more what transpired last night.

Never have I felt such peace.

I had been planning to wake you, but you were so very serene in your sleep I thought you wouldn’t appreciate it. I’ve gone to fix us some breakfast. You can come join me if you desire, but if not, I shall bring our treats in here.

How sweet it is to be leaving this note on a pillow, rather than dropping it in the postbox. I do miss the satisfaction of the wax seal, however...

Ever your friend,

Aziraphale


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley explore sex and contend with wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas: [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies) for doing to much to help refine my work, as always!
> 
> This is it. The Sex Chapter. Please note there's more swapping of genitals in here for Crowley.
> 
> Two chapters to go. As always, thank you for your support. Seeing comments come in always absolutely makes my day.

**A.Z. Fell & Co., Friday, 8 October 2021. Morning.**

Aziraphale returns to Crowley with a tray of tea and scones. Their wings are away, their clothes on as they nibble and sip over lighthearted conversation about nothing much in particular. Aziraphale sits neatly on the side of the bed, Crowley cross-legged in the middle of it.

Aziraphale can’t resist staring at Crowley, eyeing his mouth. Crowley notices. During one such moment, after the scones are eaten, he leans in, pressing their lips together.

“I wasn’t planning to be so greedy,” Aziraphale murmurs after a kiss that’s sweet with cinnamon and tea, “but I must confess I’ve been thinking about being physical with you again.”

“What’s all this about being greedy?” Crowley asks.

Goodness. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. This is all too complicated to explain out loud. “Partaking in more of you than I need to be happy,” Aziraphale tries, recalling their conversation on that country hillside a few weeks ago.

“Well, I recognise you may not want to take my word for it, but I do happen to know a thing or two about greed.”

“Ah! Of course you do.”

“And first off, affection isn’t a thing you hoard.”

“Well, I suppose.”

“Also, what happens when there’s an equivalent exchange?” Crowley kisses Aziraphale again. “You’re not the only one who wants this.”

“That is a lovely way to put it.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting nervously. He’s being entirely ridiculous. There’s no reason to keep worrying like this. “I truly do. The only thing is, it’s always been different for us, or so I’ve been told. I keep having to stop and get used to it, is all.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand and kisses the back of it. “I get it. Anything you want.”

But it can’t all only be about what he wants. “Crowley...this is something _you_ really, deeply want? I mean, even if I had never brought it up?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“It would be...good for you?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. He’s leaning on old coping methods a little, perhaps. But hearing that he’s doing something _good_ for his friend, well. It always helps.

“Yes, angel,” Crowley says with equal hints of exasperation and amusement. “Have you even been _reading_ my letters?”

“Right.” Aziraphale wiggles closer, until he’s side by side with Crowley, and clasps his hands trepidatiously, heart pounding (out of habit, at this point). “I was thinking, while making breakfast, that I might be ready for...for sexual stimulation. With you.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and falls over on the bed. “Right. Angels don’t have come-on lines.”

Aziraphale pouts, opening his mouth to protest that whatever a Come On Line is, demons almost certainly don’t have them, either, but immediately follows Crowley as he’s tugged down and met with a grin so fond he no longer wants to argue.

They undress each other reverently; Aziraphale’s fingers linger, light on Crowley’s belt, before he removes it, and Crowley’s hand softly brushes Aziraphale’s bow tie before he loosens it. Sometime within the past few minutes, they’ve both manifested genitals, revealed as their clothes come off.

“Come here,” Crowley says, pulling Aziraphale into his arms. He starts with a light, gentle kiss, a series of pecks, each delicious in its tenderness, and then deepens it. This is all it takes for him to get Aziraphale erect. Just being with him, naked and willing with the possibility of making each other feel extremely good, is enough. The words they’ve shared on paper echo in his head.

The head of Crowley’s cock presses against him as they kiss, and Aziraphale feels as if all his limbs are turning to jelly.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asks, pausing.

“Yes, yes, certainly.” His head swims.

He is, in fact, being honest, although he is also paralysed by too many good things happening at once. There’s the physical stimulation, the anxiety of pursuing (previously?) forbidden activities, the vulnerability of letting Crowley see him like this, the trust Crowley is giving him by doing the same...and in a far-off way, a sensation of connection. It’s a more distracted version of something that happened last night, an awareness of life on Earth beyond even what is typical for Aziraphale.

Intimacy with Crowley seems to open doors.

“You’re shaking again,” Crowley observes.

So he is.

“Well...let’s lie together for a few minutes,” Aziraphale suggests. Perhaps if they slow the proceedings, he’ll sort out his thoughts and gain some confidence.

“Sure.”

He tucks his head under Crowley’s chin in a cuddle position, trying to get his bearings. It’s not that it isn’t good, it’s just...intense. Overwhelming.

Crowley, however, is holding Aziraphale’s hand and stroking his hair. He’ll be here. He’ll always be here. Aziraphale could decide that this is too much and they should never get naked again, and Crowley would still be here. Aziraphale could have a humiliating ejaculation all over them both right this moment and Crowley would still stay with him. Crowley’s stood up to Hell for Aziraphale, been to Heaven for him, not for kissing or for sex or any one particular act at all, but simply for Aziraphale’s continued company.

And that’s the entire point, isn’t it? It is exactly the fact that this isn’t an expectation that makes him want to do it so very much. Sublime love beats like a tide in the vessels of his corporation. Aziraphale lets a couple of tears fall, relishing in the flow of emotion.

Crowley must hear him sniffle. “Now, don’t push yourself.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale insists. “I...I _want_ this. You.”

When he looks upward to emphasise his determination, he notes Crowley is not entirely dry-eyed, either. Without a word, Aziraphale strokes the side of his face. Crowley nudges into his palm.

It’s a few minutes of being held and having his head kissed, of listening to Crowley breathe like a human, of taking in the familiar scent of Crowley’s cologne, before Aziraphale is steady again. He kisses his way up the curve of Crowley’s throat.

He hears an encouraging sound, a combination of a sigh and a hiss, and it is _intriguing_ , so he adds a few more kisses before reaching the Serpent’s lips again. He pulls Crowley in, intertwining their legs...

Their cocks slot next to each other in the midst of the embrace, drawing a gasp - the good kind, the kind with the hint of a smile - from Aziraphale.

“Oh, my dear, that’s…”

“ _Fuck_ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale attempts to give Crowley an obligatory glare of disapproval for his language and is met with a handsome blush under yellow eyes, which are still a bit red-rimmed with emotion. And yet Crowley’s grin is impish and daring as ever; the more serious Aziraphale tries to look, the bigger his own smile grows, so he goes for a searing French kiss instead. He can’t get close enough even now, and he presses his hips forward again, again, again to get the friction of Crowley’s hips and erection against his own.

“Crowley, I can’t,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley pulls back to study his face, eyebrows raised in concern. “Keep going, please, all I meant was...I can’t describe how wonderful you feel.”

“You don’t have to describe it,” Crowley whispers, kissing the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “It’s pretty great for me, too.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, lets his head tip back momentarily before coming in for another kiss.

“Wait a moment,” he says, and whimpers despite himself when Crowley stops moving. “I should— I should get my wings out...otherwise…”

“Yeah, we have _got_ to learn how to control that.”

Aziraphale is already too deeply flushed with arousal for the embarrassment to colour his cheeks. “I never had this problem until we started, er, writing in earnest.”

“Not me, either. Must be a, um. Some sort of emotional thing.”

They rearrange, sitting up to set their wings free. Crowley is such a beautiful creature, all twists and lithe curves against the iridescent black of his feathers, and Aziraphale is drawn back to his lips. Crowley encourages him closer, and before he knows it, he’s straddling Crowley’s naked thighs, having his neck kissed.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale murmurs as their cocks once again rub together, hot and dripping with anticipation. He stretches his own wings with delight.

“Mmmmmm,” Crowley hums, eyes closed as he rolls his hips. “Mind if I try something?” he asks. “Like what I do sometimes when I’m alone, but with you?”

“Please, try what you’d like.”

Crowley removes his hand from Aziraphale’s back, caressing his arm on his way down between the two of them. He holds them both, cockheads flushed red with desperate want, slicking himself on Aziraphale and Aziraphale on himself, and tentatively pumps them at the same time.

Aziraphale can’t help it: at the warm slide-and-rub of Crowley’s private parts pressing on his own, a big smile, one that might be embarrassing were he not so consumed with bliss, curves across both his cheeks. “Dear, that is sublime.”

Crowley kisses him with a playful, roguish nip to his bottom lip. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes, to be permitted this intimate touch with you, and to watch your pleasure unfold...what an unexpected joy.”

Crowley grins, too, as bright as the sun. “Well, then. Glad the feeling’s mutual.” He glances down again to where they’re barely visible in the space between their bodies, just their heads covered in the slight shine of pre-ejaculate, rising and falling with the motion of Crowley’s hand. He speeds up, carefully watching Aziraphale’s expression with those striking eyes.

“Oh! Crowley, mind - I’m about to make a mess of both of us…”

“That would be my pleasure. Look at you…”

The encouragement is what pushes Aziraphale over the edge, his wings shaking. His ejaculate coats them both, and Crowley’s is not far behind. Aziraphale isn’t expecting the shock of affection as Crowley twitches and spills on him, too.

They sit, forehead-to-forehead for a few minutes, panting; Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed he was out of breath until this moment.

At last, Crowley miracles away the wet, leaving the two of them dry and sated. He uses his thumb to wipe a tear from Aziraphale’s face and kisses the spot where it was.

They still don’t leave the bed for several hours.

* * *

Friday, 8 October 2021.

Dear Crowley,

No sooner did you leave than I had the urge to write to you. Last night and this morning were simply incredible.

I cannot adequately describe my love for you, for our time together. When I was there with you, in your wings, I felt more connected to everything - everything that ever was - than I have before. I could sense the energies of life all over the globe, but more importantly, I was at peace with them.

Is that strange?

Perhaps I can confide in you that I haven’t always felt, on an individual level, everything I’ve tried to teach the humans, about being connected with the universe. My connection to the Almighty is meant to give me that, you know. And I can sense little pieces of it.

But I always felt a bit separate anyway. Individuated. Like it is to be a human, I’d imagine. I do enjoy it, even though it’s unbecoming of an angel. Occasionally, though, one does get lonely...I do sometimes wish for that “harmony with everything” we’ve taught the humans we’re capable of.

With you, Crowley, I felt it. When I left that note saying I was at peace, I meant it in the most literal sense. Wrapped up in your wings, something in me, something no tongue or pen could articulate, finally clicked into place. I could accept my grief over having been pushed onto opposite sides, and I could embrace my love for all the things about you that make you different from me.

Don’t take it the wrong way; this isn’t just another philosophical exercise. The joy is entirely about sharing the moment with you. I am trying, perhaps in vain, to convey that it all goes deeper than momentary pleasure, than any one act (however euphoric that act may be). You have spoken to a truth at the center of me.

I hope none of this offends you. We’ve just had a wonderful day, and the last thing I want to do is ruin it. None of it is very demonic, nor angelic. Nothing I’ve experienced recently is what anybody has ever said it’s supposed to be.

And yet, it is far better than anything I was ever told is possible.

Ever your loving friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

11/10/2021

Aziraphale,

You’re not going to offend me. These things are near impossible to explain.

For a very long time, I never thought I’d be connected to anything, except maybe Hell, again. It sounds angsty and all, but it’s really not a big deal, certainly not anymore. I like being on my own, anyway. But I have to admit, I know what you’re talking about. I’m tapped into something, too, while we’re together. It’s like...everything suddenly makes sense, or maybe I just stop caring that it doesn’t.

I liked it. Loved it. At least when it came through you.

Remarkable and weird what these bodies can do. The sounds you make, angel...you don’t hide any of your pleasure. Whether you’re having dessert or having an orgasm, it’s easy to see how much you love it, and it’s easy to be drawn into it, too. And during sex, it gets me off better than anything I’ve done alone.

It’s not about the getting off, though. Not really.

I’m glad that letter was worth the effort. Maybe I won’t even have to get drunk next time I write too much about feelings.

Yours always,

Crowley

* * *

Wednesday, 13 October 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I wish to continue with these lovely physical experiences.

I am a little overwhelmed by all the possibilities for us, and I quite enjoy everything we do when we visit, whether it involves touching or simply talking. The next time you’re in the mood for touching, please do let me know, because I would like to try a combination of our wing-related activities with the sexual ones. You seemed very pleased by having yours groomed. Perhaps involving them in our activities is the first step toward getting control of them as well.

There is no rush. I look forward to seeing you tonight, although, of course, by the time you read this letter, yet another day will have passed. Rather fortunate that our visits outrun our letters now, I believe!

Ever your loving friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Friday, 15 October 2021. Crowley’s Mayfair Flat. Nighttime.**

They’re watching a moving picture-- er, a movie. Crowley’s flat is not at all Aziraphale’s style, wide open with severe architecture the colour of iron, but here and there are glimpses of the elegance that Crowley himself radiates. Art pieces, for example. And this sofa is very comfortable.

Crowley has a sofa now. He hadn’t, the first night Aziraphale was ever here. He’d rolled his eyes when Aziraphale complained, and yet, thereafter, this sofa had appeared conveniently in front of the television. It matches the flat’s sleek, spare style on the outside, supportive and soft in all the right places under its minimalist black fabric.

It is a lot like a certain demon Aziraphale knows.

The movie they’re watching is apparently considered “old.” This is just a sign that people don’t savour enough. It’s in colour, after all; it can’t have been out for more than a few decades.

It isn’t a bad show. Rather overstimulating, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but Crowley enjoys these sorts of movies, and what Aziraphale gathers of the plot is somewhat entertaining. Aziraphale sits neatly, head leaning on Crowley’s, while Crowley sprawls along most of the sofa’s length. It’s a quiet and sweet way to pass the time.

Crowley puts his hand gently on top of Aziraphale’s.

“You wanted me to tell you when I was, er, you know, ‘in the mood?’”

Aziraphale rakes his gaze up and down Crowley, who is beautiful in his sinuous relaxation, bright yellow eyes nearly glowing. Aziraphale turns his own palm up to match Crowley’s hold.

“And this is that moment for you?”

Crowley glances to the side, gulps. “There aren’t a whole lot of moments lately that aren’t,” he says. “Just picked one I liked.”

How wonderful, to be wanted in this way.

“I would love to give it a try,” Aziraphale says, trying with mixed success to sound more confident than overexcited.

They don’t get naked, not right away. Instead, Crowley stands, Aziraphale following, and they embrace using arms and wings alike, kissing deeply. They work each other’s scapular feathers again, gently massaging, making their ways up along their forewings and back down to their shoulder blades.

As Aziraphale massages Crowley’s left wing, Crowley massages Aziraphale’s right, and vice-versa - the better to do this without having to stand apart. Aziraphale continues to lean on Crowley, even with busy hands.

This isn’t grooming, just touching, reverence and affection and sturdy fingers against tense muscles of aether. Some of Crowley’s feathers are already mussed again since their grooming session the other night; though Aziraphale doesn’t bother him with any extensive rearranging, he can’t resist repositioning the ones that seem like they might be uncomfortable. He kisses each spot when he’s done.

Crowley, meanwhile, is running graceful fingers along the coverts at the tops of Aziraphale’s wings, giving him pleasant goosebumps.

Aziraphale moves his hands around to Crowley’s inner frontal feathers. Crowley grins, keeping his eyes closed for much longer than a blink, and follows suit, leaning in for a soft, lush kiss. He hums contentedly at some of the motions of Aziraphale’s fingers, as if he could possibly have not known being touched like this would be so good.

There is no human equivalent to stroking the undersides of an angel’s wings. It is nearly as intimate as having one’s genitals stroked, although it isn’t inherently sexual at all. It can, however, enhance an already-pleasant sexual experience.

Crowley is delicious, and those sounds - little moans and sighs that tell Aziraphale he’s doing a good job - keep making Aziraphale want to give him _more_. At the same time, having his wings stroked and massaged this way puts Aziraphale, his whole corporation and soul, at a new level of bliss.

Without quite thinking it through, Aziraphale finds himself pressing a heavy erection against Crowley’s thigh.

“What do you say,” Crowley murmurs, “we make that letter of yours come true? The one about holding?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t expect the overflow of emotion, but there it is, welling up in his eyes.

Crowley gently steers Aziraphale to sit back on the sofa, one hand still on his scapulars, the other stroking the inside of his wing. Aziraphale snaps their trousers and pants away.

“Oh, eager, are you?”

“You have no idea…”

Crowley lowers himself onto Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale gasps as he’s met with his vulva, already slick. He rolls his hips a few times, losing track of what he’s doing with his hands for a minute before remembering and trying to stroke Crowley’s feathers again. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind either way, biting his lip and rubbing himself on Aziraphale.

“May I be inside you?” Aziraphale asks, twitching hard against Crowley’s warm slit.

“Yesssss.” Crowley takes Aziraphale in hand and slides him against his entrance. Aziraphale groans; Crowley is so ready, so wet, soft and open for him…

Crowley sinks down, taking Aziraphale’s whole cock in. And just as he’d fantasised, the rest of Aziraphale is wrapped in Crowley’s wings, wrapped in his arms, thoroughly and messily kissed by his best, best friend.

Aziraphale hopes he’s as good at holding Crowley as Crowley is at holding him.

He moves, cautiously at first, to match up with Crowley’s rhythm, until they’re rutting wildly, panting with exertion. Aziraphale’s wings stretch lovingly around Crowley; Crowley’s twitch tightly around Aziraphale with building pleasure.

“Feels...brilliant,” he whispers in Aziraphale’s ear. “So hot...fuck, I want…”

Crowley groans; he moves his hand down between his legs, near where they’re joined. His wings nearly vibrate with pleasurable tension, and Aziraphale realises he’s finishing himself off.

“Oh, you are beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, arms wrapped in a deep embrace, listening to Crowley gasp and slow the rolling of his hips as he savours his orgasm, fluttering around Aziraphale’s cock. As he seems to come back to himself, he turns to fix Aziraphale with a clear gaze.

“I wanna see you get off again,” Crowley whispers. “Come inside me.”

Aziraphale moans with the thrill of hearing these words; he takes Crowley’s mouth in another kiss, thrusts deeply to the sensation of their tongues brushing together, and gasps as he lets loose, his thick ejaculate welling up around his cock as he throbs into Crowley, as Crowley accepts every last drop of him with encouraging sighs in his ear. “ _Yes, yes, yes..._ ”

Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder as his orgasm slows. There’s that comfortable feeling again, the same one he got the first time they did this. Not dissimilar, actually, to how he felt at that first Ritz lunch after Armageddon, although this is considerably more sticky. Sharing it with Crowley is worth the stickiness.

Gradually, Aziraphale becomes more aware of the movie, which they had not bothered to stop.

“I preferred this,” Aziraphale admits, nuzzling Crowley’s cheek, “to the movie. Although I can tell it is very well made.”

“Well, we could always turn it off…”

“No, no. Sit with me for a while. We might as well see how everything plays out.”

But as they lie together on the couch, post-coital mess cleaned and wings folded away, Aziraphale can’t resist mentioning something else on his mind.

“You know, I haven’t written this, for fear that it might give something away if it were ever intercepted…”

“Ugghhh, I don’t want to think about Hastur reading--”

“Me neither. For the record, I have no reason to believe such a thing is happening. Better safe than sorry, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“So. Erm. Mixing our spirits.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in both of his. “You know I’ve considered it.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I have the most intense desire to do it with you, Crowley. But I’m wondering if you believe it would be safe.”

Crowley bites his lip, considering. “That...is a good point.”

Aziraphale lowers his voice, not truly believing anyone is watching but unwilling to be bold about it. “Consecrated ground hurts you. Hellfire and holy water destroy us.”

“Suppose mixing spirits negates us somehow?” Crowley asks, furrowing his brow.

“I mean, hellfire and holy water are specific weapons,” Aziraphale says. When Crowley eyes him thoughtfully, he frowns. “What?”

“You might,” Crowley says softly, “be able to say the same about us.”

Aziraphale’s heart, which isn’t technically required to beat, stutters in his chest. “No, that’s…that can’t be...”

“Wait, wait. I do think it’s worth trying,” Crowley continues. “If we can physically touch, and we can swap corporations, then I doubt we’re instantly lethal to each other.”

Aziraphale nods, grasping for relief. “Yes! After all, you mentioned holy water destroyed Ligur’s corporation and spirit _both_ , didn’t you?”

“Yeah. That’s why I think we can at least try.”

“At the first sign of any pain or distress, however--”

“We stop.”

“Yes. We start slowly. We’ll make sure it’s all right.”

“Looking forward.” Crowley grins.

This is a familiar, comfortable pattern. They’ll take their time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley mix their spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas: [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies)! You've all helped pull this story along and I'm very grateful. Thanks too to ArgentConflagration for sharing some helpful advice on metaphysical canoodling.
> 
> Note that this chapter is based somewhat on spirit mixing in John Milton’s _Paradise Lost_. I'm not a scholar of that work, so my interpretation may not be very accurate to what Milton intended. I'm really just taking a vague idea and running with it.

Friday, 26 November 2021.

Dear Crowley,

I’ve been struck with inspiration after some of our recent activities. I think I’m ready to do the experiment we had talked about a few weeks ago.

Are you still interested? If so, it will be delightful if you come to surprise me. Whenever you please, I shall be ready and waiting for you. The very night you receive this would perhaps be the ideal time.

As I’m sending this letter in the morning, I suppose that will likely be tomorrow. Do let me know if you feel otherwise.

Ever your loving friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Saturday, 27 November 2021. A.Z. Fell & Co. Nighttime.**

Crowley appears at A.Z. Fell & Co. with the letter, holding it up so Aziraphale can see it. In his other hand is a bouquet of deep red roses.

“Roses,” Aziraphale sighs, smiling, and reaches for the bouquet. Crowley grins, handing it over as he strides through the door.

“I know it’s trite, but I had to do something. You’re the only one I know who asks for a surprise visit and then tells me exactly when and where to show up.”

“You say trite,” Aziraphale says, sniffing the flowers with blissfully-closed eyes, “I say time-honoured. Oh, they are lovely indeed.”

Crowley is already casting aside his sunglasses. “Glad to see they’re a hit.”

Aziraphale places the flowers in a convenient old vase, probably hanging around from 1900 or thereabouts, and hurriedly snaps some water into it. He gravitates toward Crowley. “So. What do you think of, um…”

“If you’re really ready,” Crowley says, voice low, “then I think yeah. Yeah, so am I.”

“I do not wish to wait a moment longer.” Aziraphale draws him closer by the hand. “We’ll be careful.”

“Of course.” Crowley cradles the angel’s cheek. He starts in on a soft, slow kiss, savoring the very same cologne that’s been scenting his mail recently, before Aziraphale wraps his arms around him and kisses him back, fiercely.

“Wow,” Crowley chuckles. “You weren’t kidding. Come on, then, let’s go upstairs.”

Upstairs, they awkwardly strip out of their clothes, interrupting each other with kisses. Here, deep in the night, secreted away in Aziraphale’s underused bedroom (which is rapidly becoming a bit less underused), they could not have more privacy. They unfurl their wings and lie down on the bed, wrapped together in a feathered embrace...still kissing.

There are no sexual parts involved this time. But one doesn’t need sexual parts to be completely, utterly taken with another, or to want to become close. Impossibly close. Fortunately, for Aziraphale and Crowley, spiritual merging is an immediate possibility.

Aziraphale pulls back, flushed, his lips swollen. “You will stop immediately if there’s any pain for you,” he breathes. It’s something between a demand and a plea.

“And you’ll do the same.”

“I will.”

They press their foreheads together and concentrate on sensing each other’s spiritual presence, much as they did while swapping corporations. If anyone were to stumble on them, and if that person were capable of noticing them at all, they would seem to be very deeply asleep, their chests alarmingly still.

But no one will stumble on them because they’re in a physically and metaphysically locked shop. There is also an uncanny energy around them. To the human subconscious, it reads like a celestial “Do Not Disturb” sign.

In this state, their true Selves are at once Elsewhere, on a metaphysical plane, and still tethered to Earth. The vibrancy of human life - and natural life, too - is an omnipresent hum. Once upon a time, millennia ago, it was a distraction; they hadn’t been accustomed to the background noise of life energy, new things being born and living and dying. Since they’ve come to love the world, the noise has become a comfort, and now it’s a sheet wrapped around the celestials in their bed of bliss.

First, everything looks black, as it would for humans whose eyes were squeezed shut. But over the busy background noise of the world, Crowley’s presence reaches out like the feathery edge of a wing, asking for permission to touch. To mingle. To _know_.

Aziraphale grants it.

Spiritual boundaries are odd. They are more permeable than physical ones, and connections between them are more intense. Crowley and Aziraphale’s entire Selves cautiously get close, letting their boundaries play together. There’s something fizzy about the places where they touch, like a lit sparkler or a glass of champagne.

Their spirits crackle as they make contact, but they don’t hurt. There’s no destruction. The armies of Heaven and Hell may have treated them like weapons of destruction, but Aziraphale and Crowley are beings with free will, and they _will_ use their metaphysical bodies to love.

(Is this all right for you?,) Aziraphale asks.

She may have taken Crowley’s connection to Her love, but She hasn’t taken his ability to make _new_ connections. And Crowley likes this one better anyway.

(Stellar,) Crowley murmurs. (Kind of bubbly. How about you?)

(Beautiful. But I need a few moments to get used to it. You, my dear, are...incredible.) He means it. Crowley is almost bowled over by Aziraphale’s impression of him.

And as the edges that separate them blur a little bit more, all the things Aziraphale has ever felt for Crowley and all the things Crowley has ever felt for Aziraphale flow through their minds at once as water flows between fingers. Very nearly the whole spectrum of emotion is there, but several stand out, notes louder and clearer in their mutual song than the others.

There’s fascination. Fascination with the angel who defied his orders. Fascination with the demon who genuinely thought God was a little harsh on the humans. Bare toes on a stone wall, two figures venturing over the horizon. The hiss of the first rain; the first time this smell would occur, petrichor; the arch of a white wing over a dark figure.

There’s attraction. Crowley’s attraction to Aziraphale, who is softer and kinder than any angel Crowley can remember. Aziraphale’s attraction to Crowley, who is without a doubt the best company he’s ever had. Then there’s the attraction that came later, after getting to know each other, the charming bastard glint in Aziraphale’s eyes and the indulgence in Crowley’s smile.

There’s guilt, yes. This is mostly Aziraphale’s, for...everything, really, although Crowley finds more of it in himself than he’d expected, especially where Aziraphale and humans are concerned. “It will destroy you” echoes; the memory of fear in Aziraphale gives way to a warm gust of relief, enveloping Crowley, acting out the tenderness they’d both wished was possible at that time.

There’s anxiety about the terrible things they had believed would happen if they were found out. Of course, there is also the golden triumph of remembering how they’d handled it when they actually were discovered. Crowley experiences firsthand the pleasure of flicking holy water at his former colleagues, Aziraphale the empowerment of breathing hellfire at the Archangels.

There’s frustration. “If he could just…” If he could just slow down. If he could just speed up. If he could just choose my side. “If I could just…” If I could just speed up. If I could just stop worrying. If I could just care less. “If only Heaven and Hell would…” If only Heaven and Hell would get over this stupid war.

There’s admiration, starry eyes and pounding hearts for Crowley’s poise and cleverness, for Aziraphale’s steadfast courage.

And, over and over, there are repeated shocks of affection that bloom into a heavy, aching love.

It’s an awfully intoxicating cocktail of feelings for the Serpent of Eden, for a being who loves to argue and loves to speak truth to power and loves Aziraphale. And it’s a dazzling spectacle for the Angel of the Eastern Gate, for a being who’s never been as certain as he wants to be and who’s never imagined he might be worth something all on his own. Crowley presses himself in, nudges deeper into Aziraphale’s essence, looking to soothe the ache they share. They both shudder with the relief of closeness.

Crowley notices a...hmm. A twinge of something in Aziraphale. It isn’t just the honey-sweet ache of desire. It’s something acrid, something that he isn’t meant to know about. Aziraphale’s spirit winces when Crowley finds it.

(You alright?) Crowley wonders.

(Oh, yes, perfectly. No problem.) But there is no hiding here, and Aziraphale knows Crowley can sense exactly what’s wrong - all the more because it’s impossible for him not to think of it now. (I just, er, well, I’m full of doubt and now you get to see it first hand.)

It’s not doubt about love, nor about desire. It’s an eternal self-doubt, a cruel conviction somewhere inside Aziraphale that the pieces of him will never fit together as they should, that he deserves neither tenderness nor love nor comfort, that every ounce of it he’s taken for himself has been stolen. Because none of these experiences are supposed to be for bad angels, and that’s what he is.

Despite how tiny it is, the voice hurts. Crowley can feel it. Aziraphale is still open to him, but now with hesitation, unsure if he should be exposing Crowley to his pain after all. Hadn’t they said they would stop if there was pain? What if it transfers to Crowley?

(I like being together,) Crowley offers. (For me, it doesn’t have anything to do with who deserves what.) He touches the painful bits so, so lightly, just the barest caress so Aziraphale knows he’s there, not enough to put pressure on them. (It’s not too much for me. But if you want to stop, we can stop any time.)

Aziraphale nearly falls to pieces with the earnestness of how much Crowley wants to make him happy. Despite Crowley’s chosen words, his soul thrums with adamantine certainty that Aziraphale _does_ deserve love and comfort. That isn’t the kind of sentiment he can camouflage when they’re this close.

There is, however, a small disturbance in Crowley, too.

(You are a wonder to meld with, even if only this far,) Aziraphale says, bubbling affectionately along the borders of Crowley. (I want to go further. I don’t want to stop, emotional scars be damned. But neither do I wish to invade you or cause you pain.)

Because Crowley also has his sensitive parts. He’s not used to being treated with the love he’s been shown for the past few months, and some ancient, sulphur-bathed part of him has the urge to flee, because it can’t be safe, being attached at the psyche like this, accepting love like this. None of this is meant for demons. The way Aziraphale regards him, as if he were the source of all pleasure, and the way Crowley craves it, wants to live up to it, is something Hell was supposed to have beaten out of him.

(You’re getting overwhelmed,) Aziraphale observes. (Please don’t push yourself...)

(Nah. Can’t overwhelm me,) Crowley insists. They both know it’s only partly true. They also both know how badly he wants Aziraphale anyway. Crowley’s had his taste of delicious courage, on the Tadfield airbase and in Heaven and on Aziraphale’s lips, and whether he’s “supposed to” or not, he’s determined to have more. His spirit moves again, brushing the two of them together gently. There’s a spark.

Adoration permeates Crowley as Aziraphale returns his embrace, knitting them closer together. Acceptance. This, Crowley realises, is Aziraphale getting drunk on acceptance - on Crowley treating his vulnerabilities as things to be cared for, not crushed or scorned. It soothes Aziraphale’s pain.

And feeling that relief, in turn, soothes the overwhelmed buzzing in Crowley’s thoughts. He’s safe here with Aziraphale. If there’s any safe place in the universe to be loved, if there’s any place for his purpose beyond being a demon from Hell, this, Aziraphale’s guardian soul where Crowley is wanted wanted _wanted_ , where Crowley is capable of belonging and mattering and helping, is that place.

Meanwhile, witnessing Crowley’s attraction for him from such an empathic perspective sets every part of Aziraphale atremble. He feels a sort of admiration he’s never imagined could apply to himself, something giddy and earnest. Humanity feels this way for their private heroes, loved ones who are unique and irreplaceable and far too precious for the public eye. That he could possibly have this effect on a creature as sublime as Crowley...

Aziraphale strokes at the essence of Crowley, tender, as if handling thin glass, and almost crumbles, experiencing how much and for how long he’s been wanted. In answer, Crowley wraps again around the essence of Aziraphale.

By now, they no longer see only blackness. The background noise of Earth is accompanied by the bright streetlights of London below and the winking stars above. And there are shared experiences, too, flashes of sensory memories and fantasies.

Aziraphale is the heat of the sun through the Bentley’s windows, the burst of relief after a luxurious waking stretch, the deep-down surge of a belly laugh. Crowley is the thrill of an unexpected gift, the finger slipping between the pages of Aziraphale’s book, the savoury pleasure of swallowing. They soothe each other’s aching desires like the waves in a hot bath softening the knots out of muscles that had once forgot how to relax.

(Mmm. S’ sooo nice,) Crowley purrs.

(I want,) Aziraphale says, like a confession, (I want more of you. I want all of you.)

With that permission, Crowley pushes their connection beyond closeness, until they’ve permeated every little existential fiber of each other, and Aziraphale practically goes electric with happiness. He welcomes Crowley into himself, a home, a resting place, just as Crowley welcomes Aziraphale, ready to be his wings.

The space Aziraphale has made for Crowley is almost absurdly soft. Crowley shudders and swells with the stimulating pleasures Aziraphale sends to him: the heat of a whisky toast glinting in the low light of the bookshop, the bittersweet of chocolate gifted in secret, the satisfaction of being filled up to the core with drunken spice and laughing the problems of the universe away into the wee hours of the morning.

The space Crowley has made for Aziraphale is warm and close - warm and close like a room wherein someone is supposed to be asleep, warm and close like a whisper between kisses under the covers. Crowley’s thoughts wrap the angel in silk and convey a memory: the moon on the sea and the best tea he’s ever had, something delicate that he’d ordered alone at night while travelling, a cup he had wished so badly he could share with Aziraphale, because he’d been lonely and he’d known for a fact how much Aziraphale would have loved it.

(Crowley,) Aziraphale murmurs. (I’m here now. Thank you, for sharing this. It’s a lovely experience.)

But Aziraphale’s pleasure is already becoming Crowley’s own.

(Angel. Angel, oh, _this_ is even _better_.)

It’s the raw relief at finally, finally being able to embrace the patheticness of how very badly they’ve wanted each other. It’s knowing they won’t, never could, hold each other back. It’s an endless feedback loop: I adore you, I love you madly, I have needs too. I trust you not to cross the boundaries I set, I trust you to set boundaries with me. More than any one thing I could want from you, I want to know I’m good for you. I want us to be stronger together.

(You make a mess of me, angel. Ridiculous. Look at all these gooey feelings.)

(Please. Please don’t hold them back now, darling.)

From Crowley, who’s stubbornly made room for him in this world, Aziraphale can feel the rush of courage, a flame on a midnight candle. From Aziraphale, who’s always inspired him to be more than anyone thought possible, Crowley can feel the warmth of belonging, a private room for which only he has the key.

Easier than air with air they mix, coming together in their elation. Like the two double-chambered halves of the human heart, the spirits of Aziraphale and Crowley throb into each other, a circulation of pleasure into joy into love and back again. It’s a resonance, each cycle more heady than the last.

They hold. They hold, dimly aware of Earth’s living hum, of the London electricity below and the stars in the sky above, conjuring up a hundred indulgent euphorias for each other. They hold until they are absolutely spent.

(Oh, Crowley,) Aziraphale sighs at last.

(Whuh?)

(I am simply amazed at what you’ve given me.)

(Shut up. Listen, I’m having more good fortune than...than _anybody_ like me has _ever_ dreamed of. Like, probably no demon is capable of _imagining_ it’s possible to feel this good. Really isn’t some grand favour.)

(I can tell, and that alone is quite the thrill. But still...Crowley, staying together on Earth, never even touching, that would have been enough for me to be happy. Deliriously happy. Connecting with you through the medium of Earth was already my favourite thing.)

(Same here. But you know me. Incurable hedonist. The original streak of curiosity. Couldn’t resist exploring new things with you.)

(And I’m so grateful for that. I _love_ you.)

(Yeah. Love you too, angel.)

And then, after they’ve had a long drink of unity, they agree to settle gently back into themselves, drifting back into that little bedroom, back to their corporations, abuzz with lingering affection.

Aziraphale and Crowley spend the night in bed, once again individuals together.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croons. “That was splendid.” He kisses Crowley’s face all over.

“Hnnngh. Aziraphale. Sleep time now.” But he latches on and drags Aziraphale close, nuzzling into the angel’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> So this was the most experimental thing I've written in a while. I have no idea if it's even remotely sexy at all anymore and decided to just concentrate on making it intimately emotional, which is, from my perspective, the same payoff. It's sort of an odd-chapter-out in this fic, since it involves only one letter and the fact that the characters have no bodies for the bulk of it might be sort of off-putting, but it also seemed like an essential moment for our ineffable lovers to linger on before I get to the story's end in chapter 10. Anyway, thank you for sticking with me so far. Your kudos, comments, bookmarks, and ongoing readership help make the world a little less lonely.


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more thank you to my wonderful betas: [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies)!

**EPILOGUE**

It will never be found, of course, unless a certain pair of entities want it found. But still, there is a box in an odd little cottage in a place currently known as England which is full of letters - perhaps more full than it physically ought to be.

The box is beautiful, fine mahogany wood with gold leaf, and it overflows with the sweet and spice of cologne, although they seem to be comprised of more than one fragrance mingled together. Some of the notes are short scrawlings, some are elaborate prose, and there are far too many to read all at once, all on varying types of paper.

Here are a few of them.

* * *

**A folded ivory-coloured page dated Saturday, 1 January 2022.**

(Aziraphale had sat down to write this the afternoon after celebrating a very human New Year with Crowley.)

* * *

Dear Crowley,

You might have a good laugh at my sentimentality over the human calendar. I was reflecting on last night and what the passing years mean to us.

Admittedly, I seldom bother to celebrate the new year in a significant way. Still, marking the passage of the years is how mankind measures the steps they’ve taken - and for us, it’s the distance we’ve walked alongside them. Perhaps, in fact, it is more accurate to say we started out on their periphery, and now we walk among them.

Either way, how far they’ve come! We can debate whether they’re going in the right direction until the end of time, but I can’t help feeling a little bit proud of them.

How fortunate that I found you. Humans have built their civilisation, and it’s through you that I’ve found my place in it. In many ways, you are the one who has given the meaning to my calendar.

Ever your loving friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

**A wrinkled scrap of paper dated 22/8/2023.**

(Crowley had scribbled it on the morning after a sleepover at the shop. He’d found himself on his own after grumbling that he needed more sleep while Aziraphale went out for one of his early walks.)

* * *

Angel,

Going out on the town today. Can’t let these wiles atrophy, after all. Not to mention the plants.

I remembered it was right around this time five years ago that the whole Armageddon ordeal came and went.

Five years is a paltry thing to celebrate, maybe, but they’re five years we didn’t know we were going to get. I was wondering if later this afternoon, you might want to take a ride out to Tadfield. We could have a picnic. Don’t worry, just us - no need to bother anyone else.

Think about it. Let me know when I get back.

Yours always,

Crowley

* * *

**Two gracefully-aged linen pages written in dark blue ink dated Saturday, 12 February 2024 and folded around a white feather.**

(Aziraphale had bit his lip as he wrote it, considered reaching down to touch himself, and decided it would be worth savouring the wait for a couple of days.)

* * *

Dear Crowley,

I knew all three people who inspired Saint Valentine’s Day. The way the day is celebrated now has precious little to do with any of their struggles. However, the way the day is celebrated now also seems a more appealing experience (with all due respect, of course). I thought it might be lovely to mark it in our own way.

In keeping with human traditions, I wish to spoil you, Crowley. When you come over, come prepared in the form you would like me to please. Look forward to what I’d like to do for you; we can do anything you want, of course, or nothing at all…

However, if you’re so inclined, I was thinking of how I’d like to preen your wings for you. Now that we’ve reined them in during our intimate moments, we haven’t paid them much mind, but they did catalyse some important things for us, and I cannot forget how much you seem to enjoy having them touched. They deserve some care again, don’t you think?

After that, my dear, I’d like to taste you. My desire is to work you into a proper frenzy and swallow down every drop you’ll give me.

Yours most ardently,

Aziraphale

* * *

**A brilliant white linen page written in deep red ink, dated 14/2/2025 and folded around a black feather.**

(Crowley had left this letter to be found at the bookshop, basing it on fond memories of the previous Valentine’s Day with Aziraphale. It had seemed odd at first, celebrating a day named after a saint. Aziraphale had been right, though: the humans had taken the vague inspiration and given it their own meaning.)

* * *

Angel,

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I’m going to multitask, if you happen to be in the mood tonight. Of course, dinner first. I’ve made a reservation just for the show of it.

Afterward, we can come back to my place. It’s your turn to be spoiled. I want to hear you enjoying yourself in every way at once. Do you know how delicious you sound in the throes of passion? Well, obviously. I’ve told you. But it bears repeating.

As soon as we get in, I want to kiss you mad (do that neck-bitey thing you like). And at the same time I’d reach around and stroke you off, and maybe even get you climaxing on the next plane of existence, too. I’d like to slip inside you at the same time and feel all that pleasure coming to a head.

It’s an ambitious fantasy, but we have done some pretty ambitious things, angel.

Now, if you’d prefer to have a simple night of wine and argument at the bookshop, I’m all in for that, too, of course. Just let me know.

With great anticipation,

Crowley

* * *

**Two folded pages still inside an envelope addressed to Anthony J. Crowley, Esq.’s Mayfair flat, dated Saturday, 6 June 2026.**

(Aziraphale had found himself very emotional about an early summer night they’d spent outside together. The only sensible answer at the time had been writing it all out in a letter.)

* * *

Dear Crowley,

There is no word for what yesterday was. Although humans would call it “divine,” you and I both know that isn’t exactly right.

The early years soured me a bit on spending too much time outside, given that it was a requirement for so long. Once humanity’s architectural knowledge was well-established, I have tended to remain in towns and cities, cafes and shops, with only occasional forays into nature.

It was brilliant of you to suggest melding outside, especially in the place where you brought us, with the flowers and the sunrise and the old stone walls. Seeing them through your eyes, feeling what you do about them, is like discovering the world again for the very first time.

And for all our tastes may diverge, you have expanded my universe.

Ever your loving friend,

Aziraphale

* * *

**A hastily scrawled page with a shoe print on it, undated.**

(Crowley had written it in a harried rush on April 1, 2027 and slipped it under the bookshop door.)

* * *

Angel, you bastard,

Really. April Fool’s Day. Really. Teaching plants to sing??? I’m not sure whether I’m more pissed off about the singing or for panicking before I noticed the date. Where’d you get the voices? They sound like Oompa Loompas. I know that’s too recent for you.

Prepare yourself, angel. Tonight. You’re in for it.

Love,

Crowley

P.S. I will admit, alright, that it was a positively diabolical plan. Well done.

* * *

**A long, neatly-folded piece of parchment paper, dated Sunday, 20 August 2028.**

(After Crowley had gone home for the evening, Aziraphale had looked back on his day and decided he wanted to suggest one more thing.)

* * *

Dear Crowley,

I forgot to mention I took a walk this morning and was shocked to note that they’ve switched around a number of the exhibits at the National Gallery. It reminded me of how easy it is for things to change subtly. I rarely notice until decades later, though this change happened recently.

The point is, it’s been a decade since the world didn’t end. We have young Adam to thank; we really ought to check in and see how he’s doing again. The last I had heard, he was planning to go to the United States for a school year abroad, though that wasn’t very recent in the terms of human adolescents.

My gratitude, however, is mainly for you, for reasons that should be obvious. I look forward to our dinner date. We should have another toast - to the world again, of course. But also to us.

And then, perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, we could go out stargazing. I’ll bring my blanket, and you can doze off telling me about which of yours we can see from here.

With love,

Aziraphale

* * *

**Two pages of fine ivory linen paper, dated 1/3/2029.**

(After a late-night discussion about holiday plans, Crowley had a revelation about a new thing he wanted very much to try with Aziraphale. The subject, he believed, would best be broached in a letter, so Aziraphale would have time to take it in and think about it without the pressure of having a face-to-face conversation. Crowley had thought long and hard before writing it, and he’d been a bundle of nerves as he added the seal.)

* * *

Angel,

I had an idea. Probably seems like a crazy proposition. We don’t have to act on it. It’s just a thought I had you might as well know about.

It might be fun to get a place for ourselves. For both of us. A proper house.

I’m not asking you to give up the bookshop, of course. I was thinking of it more as a getaway, a holiday cottage. We could stay there on occasion, maybe take some weekend trips. It would be a whole new space for you to fill up with books, I could garden, and it would give me an excuse to drive more, too, as we go back and forth. I can tolerate keeping most of it the sort of quaint little abode you’d prefer if you’ll let me put a giant TV and a modern bed in there.

We spend quite a few nights going between your place and mine. Although that’s working out great, I’d really like to have a spot that’s both of ours, even if we’re not in it all the time. Just feels like a good marker for a new era, you know? And meanwhile, you’ll still be a bookseller (or at least, you’ll have a shop full of books), and I’ll still have my apartment lair.

Again, if you don’t like the idea, I won’t push it. Take your time thinking about it.

Yours always,

Crowley

* * *

**A clean, unfolded piece of stationery with wings printed on it, undated.**

(On an October evening, Aziraphale had been finishing the months-long job of arranging his beloved books in the cottage when a package arrived in the mail. Knowing Crowley was out and about and he’d probably return after Aziraphale had settled down to read, he’d left a note right on the front door.)

* * *

Dear Crowley,

When you get back, come find me in the study. Tracy has sent us a gift (bubble bath), and I have to admit I’m curious to try it. It seems like something fun to do together.

Of course, I’d like to try some other things as well, if you’re in the mood. All this crisp autumnal weather combined with the promise of reclining with you in a hot bath has me excited for the possibilities.

Affectionately,

Aziraphale

* * *

**A scrap of cream-tinted paper, undated.**

* * *

Angel,

Ran to London for a few minutes. Realised I left something at the flat and wanted to go for a drive anyway. You might not even beat me back here, but if you do, I’ll be back soon.

Love,

Crowley

* * *

Crowley writes the above on May 31, 2031, on a suspicion that May 31 is a significant date. Upon arriving at his flat and finding Aziraphale’s first letter, he realises he’s right.

“You kept it?” Aziraphale asks, eyes sparkling, a few hours later, when they’re together in Sussex again. Crowley's joined him on the sofa.

“Ah, it was lying around in my desk drawer.” This is only a very slight fib, as it had indeed been in that drawer. It had just been meticulously placed and kept track of along with everything else Aziraphale had written to him. “What else would I do with it?”

“I don’t know. Burn it, I suppose, so there’s no way for it to be found if people are spying on us.”

“Naaah.” Crowley waves dismissively. “No need for that.”

Aziraphale clasps his hands together. “Did you keep any others?”

“I, um, yeah. Most of them?” Crowley pauses. “All. All of them.”

“Oh, Crowley…” the angel sighs, irresistibly.

“Don’t ‘oh Crowley’ me,” Crowley says, lips determinedly curving into just enough of a grin that he can’t pretend it isn’t there. “It’s no big deal. I happen to know you kept mine...”

“Yes. I did. I showed you.” He had. Aziraphale is oddly proud of his collection, even though he and Crowley are the only ones who understand it.

“So.” Crowley shrugs. “We’re even.”

“What do you say we pool them together?”

“What do you mean?”

“We should put them all together in a nice box or perhaps a small chest. Yours and mine both.”

Crowley nods. "Suits me," he says, and leans his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. “We can keep them here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who's been following along. This story has meant a lot to me, and it's very encouraging to have had your company on the journey. May your new year start well and end up even better.


End file.
